


Cognitive Behavioral Therapy

by ProtonBeam



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger Management, Ben Needs Therapy, Ben is a cunning linguist, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Oral Sex, Pussy Worship, Rey is a therapist, Vaginal Sex, When In Doubt Eat Her Out, behavioural therapy, inappropriate workplace behaviour, sex marathon (eventually), there will be smut, this was supposed to be smut then it found a plot, what could possibly go wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtonBeam/pseuds/ProtonBeam
Summary: Final Order (soon to be renamed Finder) has had a change in leadership. The new board of directors is looking to change the corporate culture into a semblance of normal. Part of the problem is a toxic environment, one the majority owner deems to rectify by hiring JEDI (Jungian Employee Development Incorporated).Rey is one of two therapists hired by Finder to help boost employee morale. Ben is one of the biggest aggressors at the company. What could possibly go wrong?Abstract: Ben needs anger management and Rey is his therapist. The things he'd like to do to her in that chair though...
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 196
Kudos: 573





	1. a beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this one started off as a challenge to myself to write some filth. Try my hand at it. Somehow the story found a plot because that's apparently de-facto for me. 
> 
> I regret nothing.
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Leia sets her teacup down gingerly, shifting in her ornate leather chair while looking across her polished mahogany desk at her brother. He glances back at her cooly from the other side of the wooden expanse. Unfazed. Unmoving. The picture of calm. A tan leather folio sits closed on the desk between them. The word JEDI embossed on the lower right hand corner.  
  
“How have you been sister?”  
  
“Oh don’t play the role of good brother with me. Let’s see what you’ve got,” her hand sweeps towards the folio before settling back on her teacup for another sip of camomile tea.  
  
It’s late. 10:00 PM on a Tuesday. Luke too, is late. He’s had the files she’d sent him for a month. Granted he hadn’t given her a timeline on just _when_ he’d share his findings with her, but a _month_?  
  
It’s also been a month since she’d acquired Final Order, the software development giant. A month since she’s put in the paperwork to rename it _Finder_ (a clever reorganization of the first three letters of Final and the last three of Order). Rebranding a company with a bad reputation is only part one of her takeover plan. Final Order’s public perception is poor even if the product quality is exceptional. Really, the name doesn’t even reflect the company’s offering. It’s more a vestige of the megalomaniac that started it than a title to inspire consumer confidence.  
  
The tax and personal finance software the company develops is intuitive, easy to use, fully integrated with all the major banks. The biggest hurdle is its affiliation with the previous president, a Sheev Palpatine. He’d been one of her father’s greatest adversaries and business partners. Her father’s shares were how she’d managed to wrangle the company into her portfolio after many years and even more court battles. How she was eventually able to elect an impartial board and hire a new CEO, Amilyn Holdo.   
  
The previous president ruled with an iron fist. Media perception was extremely poor. He was known for tax evasion and offshore funneling. Proof of these fraudulent activities helped seal the deal and secure the company in her name. Of course, she had ulterior motives for pursuing this one so aggressively, but that’s fodder for lesser minds.  
  
The other part of her takeover had been a complete restructuring. Weeding out empathizers, hiring fresh blood, overhauling company culture. That last part had proven to be most difficult.  
  
She’d poured over the HR documents and noticed multiple repeat offenders. Multiple infractions of the same nature. The culture was toxic, a difficult sell when you’re trying to attract the best and brightest. The lower ranks had an extremely high churn rate and those who did manage to hang on and stay would never see raises, effectively pushing them out in search for greener pastures. The ones in the upper echelons enjoyed steady pay hikes, outlandish bonuses, questionable expenses. One executive, Snoke, had a habit of expensing a service she’d Googled only to discover it was an escorting agency. She’d already performed the first round of mass layoffs, uprooting all the worst offenders. That Snoke man included. Well … all but two.  
  
Under advice of the board, they’d hired a new head of HR, Mrs. Mothma. She had tabbed and earmarked multiple files and dumped a case full at her lavish home outside the city for review. The more she read, the more it became clear the culture needed to be turned around.  
  
With Mothma and Holdo’s help, she’d implemented a newer, kinder code of conduct. Added small incentives like paid breaks, equal paternity leave, an employee benefits package that wasn’t just the bare minimum. Now she’s looking at bringing the environment into the 21st century with her brother’s help.  
  
“I’ll tell you, Leia, there’s a _lot_ of work to be done here,” he taps the box of files at his feet with his immaculately polished shoe. The one Mothma had brought her. The one she handed Luke a _month_ ago.  
  
He reaches to open the tan leather folio, producing a neatly stapled 2 page proposal printed on thick paper stock. Leia’s fingers clasp the paper, laying it in front of her. She lifts her reading glasses from their case, settling them on the bridge of her nose and starts skimming while idly rolling her pearls between her fingers.  
  


  
JEDI - Jungian Employee Development Inc.   
  
Contract Length: 3 months

Resources: 2 full-time on-site cognitive behavioural therapists

  
  
The proposal included a list of recommendations for outfitting the therapists with a space to perform their duties. A list of high, medium, and low priority cases. The one she’d been looking for was, of course, one of two marked as high priority. Her only outward reaction to seeing the name on paper was an additional blink in her otherwise schooled expression.  
  
“I’ve already vetted two excellent candidates for the contract if you’re interested,” Luke produces two loose sheets of paper. Leia scans those as well. Accomplished psychologists in their own rights. Both practice clinical and specialize in CBT, the woman also practices industrial, which could be a valuable asset to Mothma.  
  
It certainly does look promising but Leia can’t help eye Luke wearily. “How do I know this is going to work?”  
  
He sighs and leans back in the chair, waistcoat bulging around a midsection he’s been progressively growing. He’s doing that thing people in his vocation do, at least the ones that prescribe to Freudianism and long form therapy - measuring up the case before them quietly. Fingers laced across his belly he takes in controlled breaths, formulating the perfect sentence to draw out his carefully groomed response.  
  
“Have you heard of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. Of course she hasn’t, if she did she'd be sitting in his seat. Unlike Luke, she hadn’t chosen a life of academia but one of business. Choosing to step into their father’s shoes and continue stroking the family fortune. A fortune her brother dips into quite frequently, but she won’t bring that up.  
  
He nods briefly, leaning forward and lazily producing a pen and paper out of the folio to start drawing a pyramid sliced into 5 sections. His pen draws a line through the bottom most section, “Physiological. The basic needs - food, water, housing, sleep.”  
  
His pen shifts up to the second tier drawing a small dash through it, “Security. Things like employment, health, property.”  
  
The pen shifts up again to the middle of the pyramid, “Belonging. Things like love, friendship, family. A sense of _connection_.”  
  
He shifts the pen up again to the second last tier, “Esteem. This is more intangible - respect, status, recognition, freedom.”  
  
The pen now hovers over the last tier, the very tip of the pyramid, he heaves a sigh as though this is the most difficult of all, “Self-actualization.” Here his pen dots up and down, like he’s hammering the point home, “this is where magic happens. When the self becomes the most it can be. But that can’t happen if the previous needs aren’t met.”  
  
Luke’s pen draws a circle around the lower half. “Your organization fails to provide 3 of the 4 needs your employees require to self-actualize. Possibly all 4. People need jobs and security to provide physiologically, but let’s pretend that isn’t an issue. Let’s pretend that’s already a given.”  
  
His pen draws a line out of the second tier from the bottom, “you’re not providing security. Perhaps you are to the upper echelons within the organization, but those at the bottom don’t have security. You’ve already worked on improved health benefits so I commend you for attempting to rectify that. However,” Luke circles the two tiers near the top, “your bigger problems are belonging and esteem. There’s no family or friendly dynamic within your ranks. The culture isn’t conducive to intangibles like respect and recognition. When employees feel it’s a kill or be killed environment, it significantly stunts both esteem and belonging. You’ll never be able to reach the final tier if you don’t have those.”  
  
She bobs her head, looping the pearls around her index finger and rubbing their smooth surface like a rosary. “Well?”  
  
“Well,” he puts the pen down and pushes the paper towards her. If you weren’t in on their conversation the sheet would mean absolutely nothing. A doodle of a sliced up pyramid with dashes, dots, and circles scrawled haphazardly.   
  
“What I’m trying to explain, sister, is that if you look at an individual’s mental health as a function of their performance, you’ve already failed. You need to reverse that thinking. Provide the ability to self-actualize, to _meet those needs_ , and they will thrive.”  
  
He leans back again, running his hand over his beard before settling on the buttons of his waistcoat.  
  
“Psychological conflict is completely natural. Whether personal or within the organization. It’s inherent and _necessary_ for growth. It’s _how_ we face those challenges that we become enlightened. If you provide the right tools to nurture the self, conflict resolution will come naturally. As will better employee performance and creativity. In short, a better corporate culture.”  
  
Leia simply blinks at him, lifting her teacup daintily for a sip.  
  
Luke relents. Clearly he’ll need to spell it out more simply. “They,” he points at the two CVs for the therapists he’s recommending, “will help your employees work through their needs _and_ help your organization’s goals as a by-product.”  
  
“Aah, I was wondering when you’d get to the point,” she smirked at her brother.  
  
Always a test of wills, a battle of wits. That’s been the true nature of their dynamic since they were children. Before Leia’d met Han, before she’d had her son, before Luke had gone off to Switzerland for his education. They had each other and this was their de-facto condition.  
  
Luke only laughed, his head shaking in mock defeat. As the eldest (by all of 2 minutes) he always relented first. Leia’s favourite part of their battle of wits - the win.  
  
“So when do they start?”  
  
Luke clears his throat, closes his folio and stands up. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll drop by tomorrow morning to go over the space requirements with you and prepare. All things considered and barring any unforeseen circumstances, we might be able to get them in within a week.”  
  
Leia’s lips quirk in a small smile, standing up to usher her brother out.  
  
He hugs her and she doesn’t resist.  
  
She thinks maybe she _can_ turn this around and help her son.

  
  


[X]

  
  


It’s the first Monday of March and Rey is ready for her new 3 month contract with JEDI. Purse clutched tightly to her side, her heels click against the wet sidewalk as she rounds the corner to the Finalizer building. A massive, towering architectural monstrosity of glass. A flagship building in the city’s core. Etched into its landscape and souvenir silhouettes on mugs, t-shirts and whatever other kitsch tourists buy.  
  
Taking a deep breath, she strides into the lobby of the building and towards the elevators with confidence. Rey unbuttons her black trench coat, smoothing out her tweed shift dress at the hem and patting down stray hairs from around her face when a glass of tall, dark and handsome comes to stand beside her. He’s enormous, an expanse of black three piece suit, a red power tie, silky black hair and strong features. He’s … extremely good looking in a devastating kind of way. Not the way she’d imagine her day starting but eye candy is _always_ a bonus. Maybe if she times her arrivals just right, she’ll get to oogle this snack daily for the next 3 months.  
  
The elevator doors swing open and he gestures for her to enter first, like a true gentleman. She can’t help but notice the size of his hands, the way the length of his fingers and the size of his palms dwarf his phone. The way even with just the two of them, the elevator seems _too_ full. She checks her phone, the email instructing her to meet on the top floor so she presses the button.   
  
That seems to draw his attention because as soon as the doors close, he starts to _very obviously_ look her up and down. Raking her figure with his eyes in a way that’s … well, not very gentlemanly at all. The energy in the _too small_ elevator seems to shift from indifferent to electric.  
  
“Did Hux hire you?” his deep voice rings out while his eyes rove over her face. They settle on her lips then move lower to her chest, her hips. Instinctively she draws the trench around her to shield her body from view.  
  
“Pardon me?” she blinks once, twice. Incredulity painting her features.  
  
“Hux. What’s he paying?”  
  
 _What_ on earth is this man talking about? Her heart beats in her chest while this tall drink of water turns to sludge. She just keeps staring at him, dazed. His dark eyes bore into her, pupils dilated. It makes her stomach flip and flop. It makes her want _things_.  
  
The man’s chest puffs out straining his shirt, his vest, his jacket. He takes a step towards her, crowding into her space in a way that’s both unwelcome and surprisingly electric. She _wants_ to be closer to him. Maybe it’s his energy - he’s the personality type that takes. The type that dominates. The type that might make a lesser man cower and a lesser woman shrink like a violet. It’s also the personality type that raises her defenses so in turn, she stands taller, meeting him eye for eye.  
  
“Don’t play coy. I’ll pay you double.”  
  
 _Ok, honestly. What is he going on about?  
  
_ She only raises an eyebrow, defiance written all over her face.  
  
He takes another step forward, hot breath fanning her face. From this close she can see how plush his lips look. The haphazard smattering of moles across his face, the gold and green flecks in the ever shrinking irises of his eyes. She still doesn’t respond, because, quite frankly she can’t. Firstly, she has no idea what he’s going on about. She gets paid by Luke Skywalker, not whoever this Hux is. Secondly, this man has no idea what she does so why is he seeking out her services?  
  
His head tilts the slightest bit to the left, eyes roaming over her face and settling on the bridge of her nose. His hand dips into the pocket of his box cut suit jacket. “He can’t give you what you need, but I can,” he presses something small, paper, in her hand. It’s the first touch and she can’t help the shiver that runs down her spine.  
  
“Unless you like sucking ginger cock,” he murmurs, saliva clicking wetly in his mouth on the C’s, as the elevator door dings.  
  
Outside on the landing, an older woman waits with Finn, her partner in this contract. They’re chattering idly before their eyes settle on the two new arrivals.   
  
“Rey, glad you’re here,” the older woman says, “I’m Amilyn, please follow me and we’ll get you settled right in.”  
  
The woman, Amilyn, turns to the man who’d just … well ... he’d suggested she was a fucking escort at 8:00 AM on a Monday morning. “Solo,” the woman nods briskly and whisks her out of the elevator. Away from the eye candy that turned out to be bitter licorice.   
  
The man’s demeanour fell from predatory to downright angry. She could hear his heavy footsteps plod across the polished floors to somewhere in the back. A direction opposite to the trajectory she was being guided on. In her hand, she clutched a business card.

 _Benjamin Solo_  
CTO - Final Order

  
  


…

  
  


Mrs. Holdo, or Amilyn as she preferred they call her, was the newly appointed CEO of the company. She’d explained they were in the process of rebranding and part of that was to turn around corporate culture. A fact that both she and Finn were well aware of after having been briefed by Luke a week ago in preparation.  
  
She’d given them a tour of the company’s 5 floors. More precisely, the top 5 floors of the Finalizer building. The first and lowest floor was taken up by IT and their server infrastructure. A formality, Amilyn had said, because they have multiple server arrays globally. This one just looked good when clients and investors visited and got a tour. The second floor was taken up by software engineers. Masses of cubicles from wall to wall. The third floor was a huge lunch room, a series of boardrooms and an area under construction that Amilyn told them was for napping pods and a games room. The fourth floor was taken up by a sales team with a corner dedicated to support. The top floor was HR, the executives, and now the temporary offices of the two therapists.   
  
Amilyn mentioned there had been a recent cull of the herd (her exact terminology oddly enough) and there was extra space perfect for therapy. It was a private section, right behind the elevators and out of reach for prying eyes. Two offices on opposite ends separated by a conference room and bathrooms. Each office had a little waiting area prepared with a sofa. Private enough that employees wouldn’t feel self-conscious about visiting a therapist.  
  
The offices themselves were already set up. Luke’s work, most likely. Rey’s had a desk set against a wall of windows, two chairs set before it. In the middle of the room were two comfortable blue wingback chairs with a walnut coffee table between them. Therapy chairs. Otherwise Luke had ensured each office had at least one fake ficus tree (he believed plants to be a soothing presence), a small counter with a coffee machine and an electric kettle (ice breakers), and plenty of paper. Each also had a box of files already laid out on the desk and computers already set up by IT. Clearly their workload had already been assigned.  
  
“I’ve called staff meetings starting at 10:00 to introduce you,” Amilyn tells them when she’d finished pointing out the executive offices, standing in front of her own. “We’ll be meeting staff in waves. We’ll start from the bottom up. At 10:00 you’ll meet IT. At 10:30 we’ll move up to software engineering. At 11:00 we’ll meet with sales and support, and 11:30 up here with the execs and HR. After that you two will be meeting with the head of HR to go over your bookings. Some cases will already have appointments set up. Please make yourselves at home in the meantime. Take the time to settle in and I’ll be by to grab you when it’s time.”  
  
Rey and Finn make their way back to their new reality. Finn prattling excitedly over getting an office on the top floor of the Finalizer building. “Did you see that view?” he gushed. No, Rey wasn’t thinking. She was staring at the brass nameplate on the door they were passing by. Frosted glass panels hiding a foreboding black mass inside.  
  
 _Benjamin Solo._

  
  


…

  
  


“... I urge any of you interested in taking advantage of this 3 month program to book appointments. This is a company resource so your insurance will not be charged. You also won’t be docked paid time during your sessions. In fact, we encourage you to use this resource in any capacity. HR will be sending you an email shortly with the booking details.”  
  
That was Amilyn’s pitch. Rey and Finn smiled kindly at each of the 3 groups they’d already met with, footing questions about their methodology from the sales team (talkers - Amilyn had leaned in to whisper while Finn was answering a question about prescription drugs and how they were psych _ologists_ not psych _iatrists_ ).   
  
Only one group left, the one she’d been dreading because it would most likely include the rude asshole from this morning. As they rounded the corner to the executive boardroom Rey could hear raised voices.  
  
“This is a waste of time Mothma. I have shit to do,” a now familiar deep voice intoned. It’s irate, dripping with disdain. Like someone who works on no one’s schedule but their own. There’s also something inherently childish about the exchange. Like a toddler stomping their feet because they _don’t wanna_.  
  
“Now Benjamin, this won’t take long and you’ll be on your merry way.”  
  
Sure enough, when the three of them walk into the boardroom there’s a very tall, very broad, very broody man staring at her with the same intensity from the elevator. There’s a slight possibility his intensity has doubled since that incident. Colour is high in his cheeks and he’s breathing heavily.  
  
Amilyn guides her and Finn to the front, delivers her practiced pitch to the staff. Her head moving slowly to meet each of the executive’s eyes. Rey can only see one set. The one that’s huffing, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, jaw twitching as he flexes the muscles of his temporomandibular joint. His eyes burning hers as if his goal is to set her ablaze with just his gaze. She can’t quite put her finger on it but it seems her presence in particular is the irritating factor.  
  
Well, no matter, she smiles brightly around the room while avoiding _those_ eyes. He probably won’t be seeking therapy. Men like him don’t think there’s anything wrong with their behaviour. Even though she could spend hours dissecting grandiose personalities like his, the most common factor among people like him is an inability to see their own faults. A factor that means they rarely seek therapy.  
  
This group had no questions. They filed out as soon as Amilyn delivered her speech. At the front of the group was none other than Benjamin Solo, leading the way as if being in the room a second longer was a personal affront to his senses.  
  
As Rey lets out a long breath she didn’t know she was holding, as her and Finn walk to Mrs. Mothma’s office chatting about the weather, she’s handed a folder with her pre-scheduled appointments and assigned cases.  
  
At the very top, is none other than Benjamin Solo. Scheduled to meet three times a week - Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 1:00 PM just after lunch. A little red flag printed beside his name. He’s one of the high priority cases Luke had informed them about.  
  
 _Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're itching for some research:
> 
> [Cognitive Behavioural Therapy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cognitive_behavioral_therapy)   
>  [Carl Jung](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Jung)   
>  [Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs)


	2. a session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Fine. I’ll do it but I don’t want to see that woman. Is she even old enough to be licensed?”_
> 
> _“I assure you she comes highly recommended. She’s well accredited and very capable.” Mothma pulls her glasses off and leans her chin against the back of her hand._
> 
> _“When did she get her license? Yesterday? I demand to see someone with experience.”_
> 
> _He doesn’t miss Mothma’s eyes darting over his shoulder. Doesn’t miss how her mouth sets in a firm line. Doesn’t miss how her eyes are asking him to shut up. Except he can’t. He can’t place his finger on why but his anger has taken center stage. Taken on a life of its own that won’t be tamped down by anything._

He thought Hux had found the most perfect escort. It’s not like Hux hadn’t ordered them before. It was a routine practice the ginger fuck employed almost weekly. Something he’d learned from Snoke. He’d regularly hire some leggy piece of ass to show up and suck him off in his office. Or fuck him. Ben’s not really sure what goes on behind the closed door, he just assumes Hux is the type who likes to feel in power and have women on their knees. Except he’d had to get smart about it once his mother started restructuring the company.  
  
Apparently the bastard begged to keep his job, snot, tears and all. It seemed to have worked because aside from Hux, the majority of the executive suites on the top floors had been emptied, replaced with fresh faces and bright smiles. A bunch of fucking pushovers if you ask him.  
  
But Hux’s penchant for blowing his wad during business hours didn’t change. He’d just gotten smarter about how he accomplished that goal. The women didn’t show up scantily clad anymore. They’d wear ‘professional’ business attire, pretended they had meetings when asked. If you were stupid, like most of the new staff on the top floor, you couldn’t tell. Hux had gotten away with this ruse for the past month. Ben always could, though. Their lips were _too_ pouty, eyes _too_ heavily made up. Clothing _too_ unprofessional - skirts just a touch too short, blouses too low cut, heels too high to be practical, stockings with those titillating exposed seams on the back that an _actual_ business woman would never wear. They were women playing a role, playing dress-up to the best of their knowledge. Like the secretary in a bad porno.  
  
Until today, that is. When a gorgeous woman stepped into the elevator with him and pressed the button to his floor. This one played the role so perfectly it was almost believable, but she was too beautiful to be an actual appointment. So he’d made the fatal error of thinking she was one of Hux’s women. Shit, for that dusting of freckles and miles of legs he’d been willing to pay handsomely. Double Hux’s offer. He’d even told her as much.  
  
Only … she wasn’t an escort. She was actually one of the therapists his mother was testing out and like the idiot he was he’d insulted her. There were now very slim chances he’d be able to worm himself out of the hole he’d dug.  
  
Whatever, he’s got his hands and good lube at home. If he’s really desperate he’ll hire his own escort. Maybe if he can find a picture of her online, he’ll forward it to an agency willing to match her features and send a doppelganger to get her out of his system.  
  
He’d seen his uncle and mother milling about the past week setting up the new offices. Knew they were in the back behind the elevators. _Far_ away from his own office. At least he could steer clear of her. For three months, he’s fine scheduling meetings on a different floor. Maybe use that dark meeting room they have nestled between the servers. That one always makes a great impression anyway, surrounded by dark stately towers of machinery.  
  
He’d all but eyefucked her in that introductory meeting when Amilyn introduced her as Rey Niima. Itching to splay her across that boardroom table and bury his face between her thighs while everyone watched her come on his tongue. He can imagine those hazel eyes of hers go wide, can imagine the noises she makes when she comes. He’d bet his left nut she wasn’t loud but mewled softly while she quivered. _Fuck_. He’s getting hard just thinking about it again.  
  
Ben heads down to the lunch room with his mug in hand. He doesn’t actually need coffee. He just can’t use the exec bathrooms anymore because they’re near _her_. So he’ll have to make due with getting himself off a few floors down where nobody would be at this time of day. The mug is a convenient diversion if anyone should brave asking. He’s got a coffee maker in his office but it’ll give him the cover he needs to jerk himself into a semblance of normal. It’s not a practice he employs regularly, but this isn’t a regular day. Desperate times call for desperate measures.   
  
When he gets there, he fists himself roughly, rutting into his hand imagining her eyes staring up at him, those pretty pink lips wrapped tight around his cock. He imagines them tearing up while he fucks that sweet looking face of hers, painting those freckles across the bridge of her nose with his spend. He comes on a particularly hard thrust in record time, whispering her name into thin air.

Cleaning himself off, he stares at his reflection in the mirror for just a touch too long. Fucking degenerate. Can’t even stand in an elevator with a pretty woman that has _actual_ brains without screwing it up then having to jerk off over the encounter.  
  
 _This is going to be a hard three months_ , he thinks. He needs to avoid her as much as possible and everything will be just fine.

  
  


...

  
  


Except it’s not. He hadn’t taken care of the problem in the bathroom at all. If anything he’d been even more on edge. He’d yelled at three sales people and two engineers before lunch only to come back to his office to the worst email possible.

  
From: m.mothma@finder.co  
To: b.solo@finder.co  
Subject: Mandatory Therapy

Good afternoon Benjamin,

As part of your rehabilitation program you’ve been scheduled to attend mandatory therapy three times a week. The sessions have been added into your calendar. Let me know if you have any concerns.

Sincerely,  
M. Mothma

Of course. Of _fucking_ course he’d have to attend therapy. Apparently being a dominant force that drives the company forward also makes you an unbearable asshole who needs ‘ _sensitivity training_ ’ and ‘ _anger management_ ’. Like it’s _his_ fault everyone else is incompetent. Well, do your worst Mothma. He’s survived her predecessor Phasma, he’ll survive her too.  
  
His calendar is filled with appointments. Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays at 1:00 with a Dr. Rey Niima Ph.D. _Fuck_.  
  
No. No _fucking_ way he’s going to be sitting with her for an hour every other day for the next 3 months and survive. Not only because he can’t bear facing her after what he’d said in the elevator, or the embarrassing display she’d witnessed in the boardroom. But because he’s not sure he can let someone like _her_ psychoanalyze him or whatever the fuck these pseudo-doctors do. He wants to _do_ things to her. Things that don’t mix with dredging up childhood memories or talking about his parents. No. Fuck this.  
  
He doesn’t email Mothma back. He marches straight for her office, a man on a mission. Heavy strides thud on the carpeting while he employs his best intimidating gait. Two PAs duck out of the way, one dropping whatever pile of papers he’s carrying for whichever Tom, Dick or Harry Holdo hired. Mothma’s door is cracked open so he barges in like fury unleashed.  
  
“I’m not having therapy with that woman three times a week,” his chest is heaving, mouth set in a firm line.  
  
“I’m afraid that’s non-negotiable Benjamin,” Mothma replies calmly. She doesn’t look up from her computer or stop typing. She barely acknowledges him, in fact. An act that raises his hackles significantly more.  
  
His fist slams down on the head of HR’s desk. _Fuck_ this old hag, she won’t fire him, she _can’t_. He’s too valuable.  
  
“I said,” he grinds his teeth, “I’m not doing it.”  
  
“Benjamin Solo,” her typing has stopped, she’s swivelled her chair to face him glancing up calmly over the rim of her glasses, “what part of non-negotiable do you have a problem with? Hmm?”  
  
“All of it.”  
  
“Unfortunately,” she pulls out a thick blue folder with his name scrawled across the front, “we have a lot of complaints against you. I’m afraid if you don’t comply that’ll be grounds for termination. Are you suggesting you’d like to resign?”  
  
He scoffs. _Hardly_. She can _try_ to terminate him, there’s no way the company can run without him.  
  
“Mr. Hux is more than capable of taking over your position,” she warns. _That_ makes a furious jolt lick up his spine. How _dare_ she insinuate that obnoxious douche can do what he does. The prick can’t even function without his weekly escorts. Maybe he should tell Mothma _that_ juicy little bit of information, see what she’ll do with the intel. Then again, self-preservation kicks in. If he’s going to be _forced_ into therapy, at least he’d like to not have to look at _her_.  
  
“Fine. I’ll do it but I don’t want to see that woman. Is she even old enough to be licensed?”  
  
“I assure you she comes highly recommended. She’s well accredited and very capable.” Mothma pulls her glasses off and leans her chin against the back of her hand.  
  
“When did she get her license? Yesterday? I _demand_ to see someone with experience.”  
  
He doesn’t miss Mothma’s eyes darting over his shoulder. Doesn’t miss how her mouth sets in a firm line. Doesn’t miss how her eyes are asking him to shut up. Except he can’t. He can’t place his finger on why but his anger has taken center stage. Taken on a life of its own that won’t be tamped down by _anything_.  
  
“I won’t talk to a therapist with training wheels. Get me a real one,” his fist connects with the desk again and he turns to leave. Except … right there in the open door way stands the dusting of freckles he’d like to forget. The same dusting of freckles he’d like to paint with his cum, all wide eyed and mouth agape. _Fuck_.  
  
Ben doesn’t look back. He plods out of Mothma’s office, past a very stunned woman he can’t seem to stop insulting. Realization hanging heavily over his head. He’s going to _have_ to see her. He’s going to _have_ to talk to her. Mothma definitely _won’t_ switch his therapist now. Probably out of sheer spite.  
  
On his way back to his office he punches a hole in the drywall. 

  
  


[X]

  
  


Solo’s little outburst outside of Mrs. Mothma’s office didn’t faze her. Not much. If anything it was quite the compliment he thought she was young enough to be fresh out of school. Though the experience part did make her bristle a touch. Being belittled isn’t a good feeling. Then again, being belittled by a guy whose case file is a few inches thick doesn’t sting so much once you delve into it.  
  
Anger management therapy. Twice. The first time under the previous head of HR and it looked to be more of a formality. There were no notes on it other than a date and a checkmark. Not even the name of the attending therapist. The second was ordered by Mrs. Mothma about a month ago. The therapist’s notes there state he’d blown up and left within the first hour. The HR complaints weren’t much better. There were a few from the previous regime, but many more in the past month. She leafed through them one by one, reading the complaints.

  * Feb. 3 - threw coffee at software engineer (name blacked out) for not responding to Jira ticket on time.
  * Feb. 3 - shredded executive (name blacked out) performance report in front of them for wrong typeface.
  * Feb. 4 - volume complaint. Yelled on the phone at Australian team.
  * Feb. 5 - destruction of company property. Broke executive office printer.
  * Feb. 7 - Intimidated pod of software engineers (names blacked out) over programming bugs.
  * Feb. 10 - Threatened cleaning staff (names blacked out) for being in the bathroom at the wrong time.
  * Feb. 10 - threw coffee at IT personnel (name blacked out) when (name blacked out) didn’t fix his computer fast enough.
  * Feb. 10 - volume complaint. Cursing during a conference call with the office door open.  
  




The pages went on and on. Rey believed there were more. This was just the ones who dared complain. The ones who were able to pull themselves together and fill out the forms after being assaulted by a man Solo’s size. She could bet for every one complaint in his file, there are at least 2 others unaccounted for. In fact, she’d witnessed his temper for herself when he’d belittled her capacity as a trained therapist earlier.  
  
Mothma had offered to switch his file with Mr. Hux. There were only two high priority cases: Benjamin Solo and Armitage Hux. Mrs. Mothma told her Luke had personally picked her to deal with Solo but in light of the recent outburst she’d understand wanting to switch. Rey had found Luke’s faith in her flattering, only making her want to tackle this case with even more gusto. An opportunity to prove her skill and capacity as a therapist. In the end she’d smiled at Mrs. Mothma brightly and told her she’d be more than fine handling a big grump.  
  
So what if he’d assumed she was an escort. Originally that had felt like a slap to the face but now she’s actually more curious _why_ he’d made that assumption in the first place. _Why_ he’d asked if Hux was paying her. It seemed like that was a recurring habit with Hux if Solo brought it up so easily. She jots that on a notepad then pushes it aside to continue reading his file.  
  
There were a few (dismissed) assault charges from a few years ago against (names blacked out). Employees she assumes are no longer working at the company. The details were … interesting. Both involved fists and stitches. Solo must have been, and probably still is, valuable to the company. The extent of his file a testament to how much he continuously gets away with. _Without_ being terminated.  
  
Rey spends the remainder of her first Monday reading Solo’s file and organizing appointments with HR, her schedule filling up quickly.

  
  


…

  
  


Tuesday came and went with no signs of Solo. She’d had her first session with a sweet woman from IT named Jannah Calrissian who was in clear need of a confidence boost. She’d spent her hour with Jannah listening to her talk her performance down, berate herself only to offer her a different perspective and a little homework.   
  
“Everytime you say something that plays down your performance, I want you to match it with a positive comment. When you say to yourself ‘it took me 3 hours to rebuild that server’, match it with ‘but I built it right and there are absolutely no errors’.”  
  
Jannah had left feeling a little lighter and another appointment the following week.  
  
Another woman from sales, Paige Tico, came in for her first appointment. It became evident to Rey within the first 5 minutes that she felt undermined as one of the only women in the sales department. Instead of asking her to perform positive affirmations like Jannah, Rey had suggested Paige review her performance metrics in her CRM against the others in the team.   
  
It’s not that she’d snooped, well she had. Rey had found that Paige was actually one of the top 3 performers since she’d started. Her feelings of inadequacy stemmed from a gender bias in her profession, not her _actual_ performance.  
  
She and Finn had lunch together in the empty boardroom comparing notes. They’d agreed to start swapping case charts on Mondays. ‘Peer review’ Finn had joked, ‘how empirical’ she’d playfully joked back. They’d also agreed to review and return charts by the following day in order to not lose any valuable insights.   
  
So they’d spent the remainder of that day familiarizing themselves with each other’s cases. Bringing themselves up to base line so their weekly readings wouldn’t eat up too much of their time.  
  
“This guy is a real challenge, Rey,” Finn had said while reading through Solo’s file.  
  
“I know,” she smiled, “your high priority looks like a much easier case.” She shuffled to her desk then, to retrieve the note she’d made about Hux, and handed it to Finn. He was gentleman enough not to ask, only accepting it with gratitude and posting it inside Hux’s file. After that they’d dug back into reading each other’s files until end of day.  
  
That night she went home, poured herself a big glass of wine, popped a fresh pair of batteries in her vibrator and got herself off twice _not_ thinking of big hands, gold flecked eyes and a three piece suit.

  
  


…

  
  


The clock ticks on the wall. It’s 12:55 and she’s definitely _not_ ready for her first session with grumpy. She’d decided that was his nickname. Even posted a sticky note in his file.  
  
She’s tapping her pen against the open folder, considering the best course of action. The safest bet is to draw on the most recent episode and discuss what had been going through his mind at the time. An alternate option would be to ask him of the first instance of anger he remembers and deconstruct that. Another alternative is for herself to share a moment of anger that mirrors one of his, then hope he takes the cue and shares in return. That last option is the least plausible so she scraps it.  
  
There’s a knock at the door.  
  
“Come in,” she says, eyeing the short list of outbursts she’s created. It makes it easier to navigate his needs when everything is laid out more cleanly. Easier to form it into an equation that can be solved.  
  
The door creaks open to reveal a very tall, very delicious looking Solo standing there in a black dress shirt and black slacks. He’s buttoned up all the way but his sleeves are undone, rolled to the elbow exposing his perfectly defined forearms. A visual, she thinks fleetingly, she could have used last night. _Shit_.  
  
“Have a seat Mr. Solo,” she points her pen to the chair and begins collecting her notepad. Standing up she smooths her pencil skirt down and walks casually over to the opposite seat.  
  
Solo doesn’t do things half-way. Doesn’t do calm. He closes the door and plods over in three swift steps, throwing himself defiantly into the chair. Like the devil, he just sweeps in all fire and brimstone. It’s clear he doesn’t want to be here. Not that it’s much of a surprise, really.  
  
“Ben,” he mutters after a long moment of silence, “just Ben.”  
  
“Alright … Ben,” she quirks her lips in a small smile. An attempt at diffusing the anger he’d dragged into their session with him. To set him at ease. It doesn’t work because he stares at her with that burning intensity again, like her smile is a stain on his sensibility.  
  
“Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea? Water?”  
  
He shakes his head and chews his lower lip in response.   
  
“Why don’t we start by you telling me why you’re here. What you’re looking to gain from our sessions.”  
  
He scoffs at that. “They’re making me. I _hardly_ want to be here.”  
  
“So you don’t think you have a problem?”  
  
“ _No_. Everyone else has a problem.”  
  
It’s not an answer she wasn’t expecting, so she continues to prod at his mental defenses unperturbed. “Is that so?”  
  
He eyes her wearily, eyes squinted, mouth set in a deep frown. He’s been through this before, she thinks. Knows how the verbal dance in a therapy session works.  
  
“Yes,” he mumbles looking down at his feet. Alright, at least she knows he doesn’t believe _that_ part. His body language clearly indicating he was feeding her a lie, one he himself didn’t buy.  
  
“So what, then, is everyone else’s problem?”  
  
“Are you seriously going to start analyzing me right from the start?” his chest is rising and falling dangerously. Straining the buttons on his shirt, giving her rhythmic glimpses of the smooth alabaster skin beneath the expanse of black fabric.  
  
“I’m sorry, Ben,” she lifts her hand up in a motion to reset, “what did you have in mind, then?”  
  
He leans his head back just then, blows out a heavy huff of air towards the ceiling while gripping the arm rests tightly.  
  
“You don’t want to talk about the elevator?” The question is asked more towards the ceiling than herself. But the gesture is there. He’s … embarrassed?  
  
“Did you _want_ to talk about the elevator?” She’d prefer not to. Mostly because she might reveal things that she knows are unprofessional on her part, probably his too. But if it opens the door to communication between them she’s not above it. As long as she chooses her words wisely, it could be a blessing in disguise.  
  
“Yeah, I think we should.” Ok, so he likes to tackle issues head on. This could definitely aid them in tackling his anger.  
  
“Alright, let’s talk about it,” she crosses her legs and leans back in her chair giving him the stage.  
  
“You … you’re not mad?” his head drops down, eyes meeting hers again. His face is open, coloured with skepticism and … something else.  
  
“You assume I’m upset?”  
  
“Well, yeah. I … uh … practically called you a … ummm …” tongue-tied isn’t a term she would have associated with him, yet here he is. She had assumed correctly, he _is_ embarrassed. At the very least uncomfortable by their rocky start.  
  
“An escort,” she finishes for him, putting her notepad down to look at him. _Really_ look at him. She can tell he isn’t used to people responding to him in this way. He either intimidates or intimidates, no other option. People either cower, run away, or give him exactly what he wants. He’s not used to being challenged openly. Spoken to rationally.  
  
“Well?” she starts again leaning forward to drape her forearm over her knee casually, “originally, I was. Yes. It hurt my feelings to be honest.” She can see him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Except when I thought about it I realized that some women _choose_ that profession and being insulted would be an affront to them. When I thought about it some more, I realized that you must have had reasons to make such a bold assumption. So no,” she waves her hand casually, “now that I’ve _thought_ about it, I’m not insulted at all.”  
  
He laughs a real laugh and God if it isn’t the sweetest thing she’s ever seen, even coming from a brute like him. Maybe it’s the constant wall of brusqueness she runs into with him that makes the experience of his laugh so striking. Maybe it’s his dimples or adorably crooked teeth. Rey pushes _those_ thoughts aside to focus on the little win. This is a good step towards building a rapport with a patient, she won’t let her spank bank get in the way of _that_.  
  
“You don’t agree,” she asks.  
  
“No, I …” his shoulders heave with another chuckle, “just didn’t expect you to be so understanding.”  
  
He clears his throat at that, like he’d said something out of character. Maybe, she thinks, this whole persona is a mask. She’d read the files on the previous President of the company. People don’t last as long as Solo - _Ben_ \- without putting on a mask. A hardened shell to protect the softness everyone harbours inside.  
  
“So, Ben. Now that we’ve got _that_ out of the way, may I start _analyzing_ you?” she puts air quotes around the ‘analyzing’ portion to ensure he understands it’s a joke.  
  
“No,” he bristles. Face contorting back in anger but it’s softer now. More steady flames than raging fire. It’s quiet again for some moments. The only sound in the room the clock ticking away the seconds and the humm of the fluorescent lights.   
  
“You know you’re stuck with me three times a week for the next few months. We’ll need to talk.”  
  
He doesn’t answer. She’s not sure what possesses her to act the way she does, but she gets up, placing her notepad and pen on the chair and walks over to her desk. Leafing through his file she pulls out his short list of anger issues and waves it at him. His eyes follow her every move, a slight twitch under his left eye the only outward sign of confusion.  
  
“Do you know what this is, Ben?” He blinks back at her, confusion written more openly across his face as she stuffs the sheet into her printer and presses ‘copy’. The machine whirrs and spits out an identical sheet. She grabs the copy and waves it again at him.  
  
“This,” she eyes the sheet, “is your short list of anger issues. That,” she points at the thick folder on her desk, “is the long list.”  
  
He only scowls in return. Somehow, that makes his lips look even more plush than in the elevator.  
  
Rey sits down with the copy of the short list at her desk and begins folding it. “These,” she digs her nail into the diagonal fold she’s making, “are the reasons you’re here.”  
  
“These,” she turns the paper, folds it diagonally again and presses the shape into a pocket, “are why Mrs. Mothma doesn’t trust you. The reason the software engineering department has a high turnover rate.”  
  
“These,” she flips the folded paper again tucking a corner into a point and repeating on the other side, “are what’s stopping you from _becoming_ the best version of yourself.”  
  
She makes two more small folds, pulls two pointed edges to flare the paper a little, then holds up the finished product in the shape of a fish, walking it over to him with purpose. She places the origami fish in his hand while he continues to gape, very openly now. Glancing occasionally between her retreating form and his open palm.  
  
“In Japanese culture, fish represent happiness, health, well-being. They represent _freedom_ , Ben. _Strength_ ,” she takes her seat in her therapy chair again, “that’s what I want to turn your list into. I want to _free_ you from that. But I can’t do it alone. Are you willing to _try_ with me?”  
  
He blinks at her again, eyes wide. His hand lifting the fish by one of its fins to inspect it. Like he can’t believe she’d just turned a plain piece of paper, the stain of his reputation, into a _fucking_ fish.  
  
Rey sees his Adam’s apple bob again, his eyes roam her face, then he gives her a small nod.  
  
“I won’t be easy,” he mumbles.  
  
“I don’t expect you to be.”

  
  


[X]

  
  


Ben wasn’t sure what he’d have expected from his first session with her. He’d anticipated she’d be standard fare, like his uncle. Expecting him to lean back to openly discuss childhood trauma and cry. But she didn’t. She didn’t even have a box of fucking tissues near her. He certainly hadn’t expected a lesson on Japanese symbology and origami.  
  
No, she’d joked with him. _Understood_ the elevator mishap. She’d folded him a fucking fish. A fish he placed on his desk near his computer for _no_ reason. At least that’s what he tells himself. Because it means nothing. She’s just a good shrink. A damn good one, but that fish doesn’t mean anything. Her impassioned monologue and offer didn’t mean anything. She was just doing her job. _Very_ well.  
  
As he pulls out of the underground that night to drive home, ready to take ‘matters’ into his own hands, he realizes he might just like her a little more than he’d thought.

  
  



	3. a realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _she made little to no headway with the Solo case in the first week. Something that sat heavily on her during her drive home. No case was above her, every equation has a solution, it’s just figuring out how to make the pieces fit. It was about solving the jigsaw puzzle named Ben Solo, a challenge she was more than up for. She muses, as she pulls into her condo garage, that the age restriction on that puzzle should be 21+ with a health hazard warning._
> 
> _That weekend, she’d put together an action plan for her high priority case. It was a temperature gauge of sorts, comprised of 3 different methods of tackling his anger issues. Each to which she’d be willing to dedicate one week’s worth of sessions then choose the most promising method to move forward with for the remainder of their time._

Her first Wednesday night after starting her 3 month stint at Finder (Final Order, whatever they’re calling it during the transitional phase), she didn’t need a glass of wine. She didn’t even need aid. By the time she’d gotten home she’d been so keyed up she barely made it out of her skirt, practically hiking it up to get pressure on her throbbing core.  
  
Rey threw herself back on her bed and began running lazy circles over herself. She doesn’t need to be worked up slowly. Doesn’t even need her vibrator. She’s so tightly wound that her orgasm washes over her in a matter of minutes, a handful of strokes. Sinewy forearms, gold flecked eyes, that Adam’s apple and an expanse of alabaster skin tipping her over the edge easily.   
  
The man was infuriatingly difficult but _open_. That’s what was so wrong about her furious need to masturbate the latent energy out of her system. The fact that he’s _open_ to working with her and like the sexually repressed degenerate she is, all she can do is play finger DJ to the thought of him.  
  
Part of her reasons that it’s the physical nature of him. He’s a force to be reckoned with and her biology can’t help but respond to his blatant display of primal masculinity. The way he practically drips it. It’s completely natural to feel attracted to him. Especially since her type has always _been_ tall, dark and handsome. Except, she hadn’t known exactly what _handsome_ entailed until Broody McGrump had so casually blown into her life like a hurricane. Her wishlist had always been intangible - good nose, good lips, nice eyes. But seeing _him_ put all of those things into crystal clear definition. Exactly _what_ good nose she liked, _what_ good lips she needed, _what_ nice eyes she wanted.  
  
Rey shimmies out of her work clothes, depositing them into her laundry hamper and jumps into the shower, rinsing the filthy feeling from debasing the poor man off her skin. Except he’s probably not helpless. In fact, she would bet handsomely on the fact that he’s probably just as dominating and intense in bed. He’s probably got a strong grip, powerful thrusts, is probably more than well endowed. He probably has a filthy tongue too. He definitely _takes_ what he wants in bed. Those thoughts rile her up for a second time and she uses the massage setting on the showerhead to get herself off again.  
  
 _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid_. She bangs her head against the tiles when it’s all said and done. When her body’s sung the song of his making. Well, what she imagined would be his making.  
  
She needs to get her shit together. Sure, he’s not married. A fact that she _hadn’t_ gathered while she stared at his hands a minute too long during therapy today. While she gulped down the needy mewl in her throat as he twirled the origami fish between those fingers. Maybe he has a girlfriend. Though, that seems unlikely. If she dated a guy like him he’d never be angry. Mostly because he’d be too fucked out. Damn it Rey, be _professional_.  
  
Instead of fantasizing any further about Ben Solo, she distracts herself by reading an online journal. A new study that had been published on ‘Reducing Workplace Burnout through a Mindful Meditation Mobile App’ and eating leftover pad thai. 

  
  


…

  
  


Their second session on Friday goes much like the first. It’s mostly Rey talking while Ben offers short form answers. Curt responses that effectively cut off her attempts at open dialogue. When she realizes that starting off guns blazing isn’t the right strategy, they settle into simply bantering back and forth, something he seems more open to doing.  
  
Instead of doing anything remotely therapy based, she’d ended up asking him about his favourite movies (Wall Street - both of them), books (The Art of War), and pastimes (the gym). None of his answers really surprised her, though she wonders just how much of The Art of War he’s actually read, because his tactics are nowhere near what Sun Tzu preaches. Where Ben was loud and domineering, Sun Tzu taught calm and patience. Ben’s way to win a battle seems to be diving in screaming bloody murder. Sun Tzu teaches keeping a level head and beating the enemy with steady, measured strokes.  
  
She asked about his personal life and underhandedly found out that he didn’t talk to his parents much. That he was, as she’d assumed, single. She’d fought her damn hardest not to smile at that. He still frowned at her like her existence was an affront to his personhood.  
  
Of course, none of these things were delivered to her freely. She’d surprisingly had to use the share-first strategy. The one she’d had little to no hope for. She’d told him about _her_ favourite movie (Alien - that one had surprised him), _her_ favourite book (The Handmaid’s Tale - he seemed to have heard nothing of that one), and her favourite pastimes (reading and running). He’d actually joked with her then, said he’d assumed her favourite past time was dissecting brains. It was childish and oddly endearing. She’d only explained she wasn’t a neurologist which promptly wiped the smile off his face. _Nice going Rey_.  
  
Other than that, she made little to no headway with the Solo case in the first week. Something that sat heavily on her during her drive home. No case was above her, every equation has a solution, it’s just figuring out how to make the pieces fit. It was about solving the jigsaw puzzle named Ben Solo, a challenge she was more than up for. She muses, as she pulls into her condo garage, that the age restriction on _that_ puzzle should be 21+ with a health hazard warning.  
  
That weekend, she’d put together an action plan for her high priority case. It was a temperature gauge of sorts, comprised of 3 different methods of tackling his anger issues. Each to which she’d be willing to dedicate one week’s worth of sessions then choose the most promising method to move forward with for the remainder of their time.  
  
The options were: Self-Awareness, Personal Reflection, and Emotional Awareness.   
  
For self-awareness she’d help him identify situations that make him angry, draw his attention to recurring patterns. In turn, that would help him consciously recognize these triggers and adjust his behaviour accordingly. If he’s receptive to this format, they’ll work on problem solving together. Finding ways to work through the patterns and developing coping strategies.  
  
For personal reflection she plans on turning questions on him that would have him reflect on his behavior. How it would be _perceived_ by others, how it would _impact_ others. Focusing on this route would hopefully help him see his actions from the other side of the room and mitigate his surge to anger. It promises the patient the ability to control their temper by giving them a bird’s eye view.  
  
For emotional awareness ... well, she hopes they don’t have to get to this one. Hopes that one of the others will prove so promising they don’t have to get here. This one involves more introspection she’s fairly certain he’s not willing to put up as collateral. It involves expressing feelings, talking about what he’s experiencing during his outbursts then dissecting his answers. It involves delving into what upsets him to make him lash out. If it gets to this, it’ll be a rough week, but she likes a challenge so she’s not wholly aversive to it.  
  
She goes to sleep Sunday night, satisfied with her plan and sated by her vibrator.

  
  


…

  
  


Her second week at Finder, she attempted to discuss self-awareness with Ben. It had gone … poorly.   
  
“Can you think of a situation that made you angry today?” she’d asked calmly.  
  
He seemed to consider, pressing his lips together before mumbling, “This morning a dickwad took 15 minutes to order a coffee at Starbucks. After all his deliberation he’d ordered a venti decaf.”  
  
“Do you get angry at the coffee shop often?”  
  
“Only as often as morons can’t decide what to order.” he furrowed his brows with that and balled his fists on the arms of the chair.  
  
“And why do you feel that is?”  
  
“The fucking internet?” he’d run his hand through his hair at this, throwing them up in the air after like it’s some kind of miraculous revelation, “Google the fucking menu and stop holding everyone else up you inconsidered fuck.”  
  
Alright so that was a dead end.   
  
They’d spent the remainder of that first session trying to eek out a pattern. Well, _she’d_ tried to eek out a pattern, one that he actively fought tooth and nail.

  
  


For their second session that week she’d tried to focus on triggers. It seemed (at the time) that he was easily triggered by indecisive people. Boy was she wrong.  
  
“Ben, do you find yourself getting irate with people who take too long to decide?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Really? You seem to take offense to patrons at coffee shops taking too long.”  
  
“That’s different.”  
  
“Care to expand on that?”  
  
“No.”  
  
She’d spent the remainder of the time offering options since he’d preferred short answers that day. Was it because they were holding up the line? No. Was it because their indecision didn’t factor into your schedule? Maybe. Did you worry it would make you late? No.  
  
It was infuriating and frustrating and got her nowhere. Another failed session. Self-awareness was turning out to be too finessed of a method for the brute.

  
  
  


For the last session that week she’d given it one last attempt, holding little to no hope for success.  
  
“Ben,” she sighed when he’d finally settled into his seat, “this past week I’ve been trying to work on your self-awareness. Trying to help you identify situations that trigger your anger. Did you know this?”  
  
His chest was expanding in and out, giving her those glimpses of alabaster she’s been referencing all week at home. His jaw muscles twitching while his mandible ground from side to side. “No.”  
  
She nodded, pressing her lips together in a tight line. “Are you interested in pursuing this method?” It was a shot in the dark and she knew it but, what the hell. Dancing around it hadn’t worked so maybe bracing it head on would do the trick.  
  
“No.”  
  
She sighed quietly at the lost cause, placing her pen down on her notepad and taking a sip of coffee. It was _perfect_ even if this session was going to absolute shits. “Alright, I’ll let you take the lead. What do you want to talk about today, Ben?”  
  
He’d looked like he’d been struck. His throat bobbed on a heavy swallow before his face hardened. His jaw went back to work then, twitching and clenching in tandem with his fists before he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  
  
“How … how come you don’t like the entire Alien anthology?”  
  
That was a surprise conversational turn, but she took it in stride. She’d cocked her eyebrow at him “I never said I didn’t.”  
  
“But,” he’d furrowed his brow glancing at her curiously, “you didn’t _say_ anthology. Just Alien. You singled out the movie. It was a singular statement.”  
  
She’d drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair in thought. What he was playing at, she couldn’t fathom. It almost seemed like he was devoid of normal human conversation and had latched onto that one detail in an attempt to chase … connection?  
  
“I do. Like the anthology … well … no. Yes? I like the first two best…”  
  
He’d just nodded at that thoughtfully before looking back at her with his intense gaze, “how come you don’t like the latter two?”  
  
She smiled at that. For all his priggishness this was a child like curiosity she’d welcome from him any day. “It’s not that I don’t like them. Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley is a masterpiece of a character. She’s a badass. But … the story just sort of, spun out too much?”  
  
He’d started bobbing his head again in agreement, lips quirking into that smile that highlighted his dimples. “Yeah, I can agree with that.”  
  
They’d spent the remainder of their time discussing Ellen Ripley in easy comfort, not once circling back to his anger. When he’d left, he was much less wound up than when he’d entered. _She_ had left even more wound up, having had to spend the rest of that session watching his dimples appear and disappear.  
  
That night and that weekend she wore out her first set of batteries.

  
  


…

  
  


For her third week she’d tried to stay optimistic. It was the week she’d try personal reflection. Turning questions around on him had proven more difficult that she’d thought. It’s not that he wasn’t receptive so much as he’d just refuse to answer.   
  
Luckily she’d been gifted the perfect opportunity that Monday in the form of a complaint against him. It was a great place to test the waters on personal reflection.   
  
“So, Ben,” she’d smiled at him when he’d blown in like a tornado and settled into his chair, “how was your weekend?”  
  
“Fine.” He didn’t look fine. He looked about as tightly wound as she had been the previous Friday night. Before her vibrator took care of her ever-present problem. The one with a dash of gold flecked eyes and vascular forearms. And dimples, of course. The one sitting across from her huffing like an enraged bull.  
  
“Tell me,” she’d shifted uncomfortably in her seat watching his jaw flex, trying _not_ to think about it flexing on her, against her. “I heard you yelling at Ackbar earlier. Do you want to talk about that?”  
  
“No,” his face then darkened, features contorted in one of his telltale signs he was growing irate. “We were having a _lively_ discussion.”  
  
“Is that so?”  
  
“I was _reminding_ him of the correct font to use on reports.” He accentuated that by pushing his index finger into the armrest of the chair.  
  
“And which font is that, Ben?”  
  
He heaved a sigh, like proper fonts for reports were common knowledge. As natural as breathing or chewing.  
  
“Open sans,” he’d mumbled dropping his face into his palms. He’d released a loud groan then, one her traitorous hindbrain would for sure dredge up later that night, before continuing.  
  
“He uses _comic sans_ , Rey. _Comic. Fucking. Sans_. This isn’t _kindergarten_. He’s not posting a _bake sale_ poster. It’s a professional business report. It’s not fucking rocket science.”  
  
His hands had swept down his face, then. He’d looked not so much angry as just utterly frustrated. Like he was at his wits end with incompetence. Though the main purpose here _was_ to have him reflect on how he made others feel, she can’t help but agree. Comic sans is just plain horrible. All lopsided and blobby. She’d dated a graphic designer in college who went off on an hour long monologue about the font being an insult to type face as a whole. It was surprisingly enlightening.  
  
“I understand, Ben,” she’d told him, and she did. She really did. “How do you think your _lively_ tone made Ackbar feel?” She’d added air quotes in there to add a flair of humour.  
  
He’d just stared at his open palms hunched over. There was something equally vulnerable and dangerous about his position. He’d held it for some time, the seconds ticking by _loudly_ until he’d straightened out, his face rearranging itself into his calm, indifferent demeanour.   
  
“I don’t give a fuck how Ackbar feels. I care about how he _performs_.”  
  
She’d only furrowed her brows at him. That elicited a heavy huff of air and a jaw clench.  
  
“Rey, we have _so_ many rules on code of conduct, office etiquette. We have documents outlining how to lead a support call, how to close a sale, how to program a new array. There isn’t a single fucking piece on brand guidelines.”  
  
He’d looked up at her then, that frustrated look painting his features, before continuing, “this isn’t the first time I’d asked him to use a more professional font.”  
  
Aah. So Ackbar was probably (name blacked out).   
  
“It’s noble of you to think of the company’s image as a whole, Ben. I commend you for keeping the organization’s core interest at heart,” she’d smiled but he only looked skeptical. For good reason. “But … do you think there might be a better way of telling Ackbar which font you prefer?”  
  
If he’d registered her words, it didn’t show. He was moody and short with her the rest of the session. Performing a _very_ skilled dance around her attempts at getting him to see himself from another’s perspective.  
  
That night she _definitely_ replayed the sound of his groan to get herself off.

  
  
  


The remainder of that week went about as well as could be expected. The second session she’d tried generic situations that would anger a person. Getting cut off in traffic, someone arriving late for a meeting, a hypothetical theft of property. He’d had a negative reaction to each, so she’d followed his reaction up by questioning him on how he’d think the other party would feel. He’d downplay their emotions while citing proper social etiquette.  
  
‘ _Everyone’s driving to get somewhere. What gives them the right to cut ahead of others?’  
  
_ _‘I’m sure if I showed up late for a meeting they’d feel offended too. It’s an insult to the other person’s schedule.’  
  
_ _‘People work hard for the things they own. What gives someone the right to just take it? Poverty isn’t the cause, just a convenient excuse thieves use.’  
  
_ If nothing else, his justifications seem rooted in a staunch belief _in_ social etiquette. His answers were flighty, dismissive, but had a semblance of sense she couldn’t wholly disagree with.

  
  
  


The third session went much like the previous week’s. Exhausted with getting nowhere, she’d just let the pin drop right from the start. She’d told him the purpose was personal reflection. A revelation to which he’d laughed at tightly shaking his head. That had given her a front row seat to watching the silky mass of his hair ripple, another detail she knew would get tucked away for later.  
  
She’d given him the stage again, let him run the session. So, like the week before, he thought about it long and hard before turning it around on her.  
  
“W-what makes _you_ angry, Rey?”  
  
She’d blinked at him a few times, trying to register the question behind those burning eyes.  
  
“I - hmmm. Lying. Not white lies, I can see the value in those. Big ones. Big heaping sweeps of falsity. Deliberate omissions of the truth,” she thought some more before adding more quietly, possibly a little sadly, “and avoidance. People who walk away from others. From arguments, discussions, _responsibilities_.” That admission splinters something inside her. That fear of being left behind, being walked away from the way her parents had.  
  
That _also_ seemed to make him laugh again. “Is that … funny?” she’d bristled.  
  
“No, I,” he’d leaned back just then, giving her a good look at those distracting dimples, “I just assumed your answer would be uncooperative patients.”  
  
She’d burst out laughing at that.  
  
They’d spent the rest of that Friday dissecting types of lies. What constitutes a deliberate omission. Where the line is drawn between an omission and a lie. They didn’t touch on avoidance. He seemed to steer clear of it consciously, an act she was beyond grateful for.  
  
That weekend she imagined touching his hair as her vision whited out and she wore out another pack of batteries.

  
  


…

  
  


The fourth week was dedicated to emotional awareness. She had very little hope for this method because it was the one that slid a little too close to the ‘ _psychoanalyzing’_ he seemed so fond of skirting.   
  
But she’d tried nonetheless. If nothing else, the previous Friday’s easy conversation gave her renewed hope for the Solo case. She’d asked him to reflect on a moment of anger, to recount his inner emotions at the time. It ended early after a very long stretch of silence. He’d just gotten up and left in three of his large strides. She didn’t even see him in the hallways after that. Just knew he was locked up in his office with the lights off. She also tamped down the bubbling disappointment at being left, _again_ , by someone. Even if it shouldn’t have mattered. _He’s just a patient_ , she’d told herself. It didn’t feel that way.

  
The second session she’d tried again. Instead of pulling from an outside experience, she tried to keep his emotions confined to the room. So she’d asked him about his previous outburst. About leaving in a tizzy.   
  
“Why did you leave early on Monday?”  
  
“No.”  
  
She’d sighed deeply at that. “No is not an answer to a _why_ question.”  
  
“Well, that’s my answer.”  
  
“Alright, what did I do to make you angry and leave, then?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
 _This infuriating man_.  
  
“Surely I must have said something,” she’d begun again, that hurt at being the reason someone left bubbling in her chest unwelcome, “if not for yourself, would you be able to tell me so I can improve my methodology? Consider it client feedback.”  
  
It was, of course, a partial lie, or an omission of truth. In reality she _had_ taken him leaving a bit personally. She knew she shouldn’t have. Firstly, this is a business transaction. Secondly he owes her nothing. But then, and she can’t even pinpoint just when this happened but, she’d started _caring_ and that muddled the waters a bit, didn’t it?  
  
“It’s not _what_ you said…” he’d left the sentence to hang in the air while he stood up and walked to the windows. His hands pressed into his pant pockets, back turned to her while he contemplated, looking out the window. Rey watched the expanse of his back muscles rise and fall, twitch and flex under the fabric. Took in the way he filled out the frame of the window, making it look tiny rather than the floor to ceiling expanse it really was.  
  
“Then?” she’d asked hopefully when he’d provided no answer for some minutes.  
  
“You … act like it’s so easy. To be calm. Maybe for you it is … but I ...”  
  
He didn’t finish. Instead he’d left early again. Striding out with those long strides not even affording her a glance. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her but couldn’t be bothered to care.

  
  
  


That Friday she’d given up completely on trying this method. She’d resigned to having to do more research over the weekend. Maybe talk to Finn or Luke later to bounce around some ideas. Other forms of therapy, other methods of extraction.   
  
Instead she’d grabbed the game of Monopoly from the games room that was still under construction, pulled the therapy chairs closer to the coffee table, and played a round with him. He’d dominated of course, but it was nice to see his face light up without pretense. Just giving him an hour of easy peace. He hadn’t left early that session. Not even when she’d managed to bankrupt him when he landed on her pimped out Park Place (one of the only 4 properties she’d managed to capture).  
  
When she left that night for the weekend, when she was paying for a new set of batteries at the convenience store around the corner of her place, she’d come to the realization that she really and truly didn’t understand the enigma of Ben Solo.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're interested in more reading:
> 
> [The Art of War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Art_of_War)


	4. a reveletion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Let’s try something different,” she offers calmly, gesturing with an open palm._
> 
> _Clearly textbook therapy doesn’t work with this man. He’s brimming with pent up aggression, whether from his job or from general dissatisfaction with his life, she doesn’t know. She’ll need to dig deeper to find out but that’s nigh impossible with the way he bristles every session. She simply can’t risk pushing him down the path he started taking last week - namely simply up and leaving. Couldn’t take it if he did it again today._
> 
> _“Fine,” he throws his hands up defeatedly, not meeting her eye._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact - Rey's portion of this chapter is actually the very first piece I'd written for this fic. The entirety of the story is built around everything below the POV switch.

He really doesn’t know how it happened. It all started off so innocently. If you can consider insulting the woman in question then having to furiously jerk off over thoughts of her after every encounter innocent.   
  
At first it had just been good ol’ attraction. He’d wanted to bury his head between her legs, plain and simple. There was something about her that promised he’d find absolution in the space between her thighs. Like that’s where the solution to all his life’s problems lay. Sure he’d fantasized about having her go down on him, maybe while he went down on her. Sure he’d occasionally thought about what it’d be like to fuck her. But most of all, he imagined her sitting on his face. Wrapping those slender thighs around him and feeding him her ambrosia. He was willing to bet handsomely on the fact that she’d taste nothing short of exquisite.  
  
It had become progressively harder to hide his erection during their time together. With each passing session his arousal grew exponentially. With each carefully chosen word, each question she’d ask, he’d found himself thinking of nothing but what was between those thighs. How warm and wet she’d be. How delicious she would taste. It was getting hard to even _look_ at her sometimes. Simple eye contact skirting dangerously close to his eyes drifting where he really wanted to be. Or dredging up one of his fantasies. After every session he’d close his office door and do unspeakable things within its dark confines just to regain a modicum of control.   
  
It didn’t help that her wardrobe absolutely _did_ things to him. She was the image of professionalism. Her skirts hugged just right without being _too_ tight. She’d always pair them with these loose, flouncy blouses and modest heels. Sometimes she’d wear dresses. Either shift or sheath. Never more than an inch or two above the knee. Her decolte never too low, the straps never skimpy. She had this one that drove him absolutely mad. There was nothing special about it really, just a simple mustard shift with short loose sleeves and a boatneck. It gave away _nothing_ which made it all the more titillating to imagine what was beneath it.  
  
He _lived_ for those small moments when she’d share a bit of herself with him. She’d surprised him when she told him her favourite movie was Alien. So he’d gone and bought the whole anthology. Watched it all that first weekend, though only the first two movies were worthy of a re-watch, the latter two were dragged out at best. When he’d asked her a week later why she didn’t mention the full anthology, he found they shared the same view.   
  
He’d been happy getting these little glimpses of who she was outside of that therapy chair. He snapped them up hungrily. And then she’d gone and given him a peek inside. A _real_ one.  
  
She was afraid of being left behind. Of people walking away from her. Like it was an occurrence that happened more often than it should. Like she wasn’t worth _everything_. She’d inadvertently exposed her sensitive underbelly. He didn’t miss that it was by mistake, but he did show his gratitude for that peek by not bringing it up.  
  
Except he did. Not so much in words but actions. By walking away from her _twice_ last week. He _knew_ she didn’t like when people walked away, even if it was just therapy, even if it was just the job, he’d gone and done it anyway. She’d started dredging up his _feelings_ which made him need to run away before he’d let something inappropriate slip. Because that’s who he is, isn’t it? The guy who ruins things, breaks things. He couldn’t deserve her if he sold his pathetic sliver of soul to the devil for just the _chance_.   
  
But she kept trying. Every time he thought he’d ruined things she’d double down. After walking away from her _twice_ she’d gone and played monopoly with him. Like he hadn’t all but stabbed her in her weak spot and turned the knife. Like he was _worth_ trying for.  
  
No. He’s not _worth_ anything. He’s good at intimidating. At making the First Order (Finder, whatever the fuck they’re calling it these days) machine run. That’s how Palpatine had trained him to be. That’s what his parents neglect made him. He’s not good at relationships. He’s not good at women. He’s definitely not good for _her_.   
  
Instead, he’ll drink in what he can of her. Memorize every curve of her face, every twitch of her muscles, every contented hum she makes when she sips her coffee. Savour those moments for when the contract is up. Commit them to memory so he can continue to jerk off to the thought of being buried between her thighs long after she’s moved on with her life. Like the depraved lonely idiot he is.  
  
No. She’d never want him. If he laid his interest on the table she’d probably just laugh at him. How cliche, patient catches feelings for their shrink. It’s a ridiculous notion. She’s just doing her job. She’d never _actually_ be interested in him.   
  
That’s what he tells himself. Every day.

  
  


[X]

  
  


She’s had a good weekend and a great start to her working day. The Solo case still has her in a knot and she’d spent the weekend researching alternatives to anger management. CBT works great if the subject is willing to work on the problem, but he doesn’t seem to be interested. Her previous attempts at using different lenses to look at his problem had all been shot down.  
  
Nothing a little work won’t fix, of course. It’s just getting him to participate willingly that seems to be a problem, their biggest hurdle. He can’t seem to settle his anger enough for them to delve into the issue itself. How are you supposed to get the pearl if the oyster is clamped shut around it? A little elbow grease and some force, of course.  
  
She spends her lunch hour re-reading the meditative article she read over the weekend. Making notes on how to steer the conversation in that direction and introduce the concept to him _without_ raising his hackles.  
  
Rey’s still deeply engrossed in her notes when he walks into her office 15 minutes late for their 1:00 PM in a flurry. Every time that man walks into her office it’s like he drags in a thunderstorm of emotions. It’s all but palpable in the room. She’s gotten used to it, almost welcomes it some days.  
  
She nods towards the door, implying he close it for their session. At least this part is predictable. He does this easily with no rebuttal every time, _almost_ like he’s looking forward to it.  
  
“How was your weekend, Ben?” she asks, standing up and smoothing her pencil skirt to walk over to her therapy chair.  
  
The brooding, hulking mass of Benjamin Solo huffs frustratedly and takes his own seat after shutting the door.  
  
“Alright,” she lowers herself into her own seat, “well mine was quiet and peaceful. I got a lot of errands done and some work related reading. Did you want to share anything you did?”  
  
“No.” He drops into his seat unceremoniously. His black suit, sharp and tailored, makes her bite her cheek suppressing the thoughts she was having of him last night from bubbling up.  
  
“That’s okay. Have you had any incidents where you felt angry? Stressed out? Overworked today?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You know during these sessions you’re the one who’s supposed to talk,” she tilts her head and offers him a small smile.  
  
“I thought therapy was a two way conversation.”  
  
 _Oh Christ, this infuriating man.  
  
_ “It is. But sharing is also a two way street. I’ve shared, now it’s your turn.”  
  
That shuts him up. _Yesss_. Scratch another small win on her tab.  
  
The seconds tick by loudly before he relents, “fine. No. No incidents. Weekend was fine. I yelled at some jackoff who was driving like a fucking pansy this morning. Does that count?”  
  
“Road rage is normal. We tend to internalize poor behaviour in others and externalize poor behaviour in ourselves,” she glances at him expectantly but he just bores holes into the floor hunching over in his chair, “for example, when someone drives like a _fucking_ _pansy_ , as you say, they’re a jackoff and a terrible driver. Their behaviour is _internal_ to them. When _you_ drive poorly it’s because your coffee spilled or your phone rang. The behaviour is _external_ to you. It helps to know that people are just like us, prone to making mistakes and being distracted. Compassion, if you will.”  
  
He huffs again, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. His shirt looks like it’s fighting a losing battle with his chest again. That’s been her telltale that he’s teetering since their second session. She files the visual away for later because it’s damn delicious. His chest, that is. Not the rage seething underneath that expanse of what _must_ be hard muscle.  
  
They sit, staring and sizing each other up for some time. The clock ticking away the seconds quietly while their battle of wills hits a stalemate.  
  
“Let’s try something different,” she offers calmly, gesturing with an open palm.  
  
Clearly textbook therapy doesn’t work with this man. He’s brimming with pent up aggression, whether from his job or from general dissatisfaction with his life, she doesn’t know. She’ll need to dig deeper to find out but that’s nigh impossible with the way he bristles every session. She simply can’t risk pushing him down the path he started taking last week - namely simply up and leaving. Couldn’t take it if he did it again today.  
  
“Fine,” he throws his hands up defeatedly, not meeting her eye.  
  
“Ben, I know you’ve tried anger management,” she begins, “though that doesn’t seem to have helped.”  
  
He bristles again, giving her a furtive sideways glance. She notices he’s about to rebut when she lifts her hand calmly and continues.  
  
“Textbook therapy doesn’t work on everyone. The majority of the population falls within a bell curve, they’ll benefit from these therapies just fine. However others, _outliers_ , need alternate methods.”  
  
She pauses there, taking in his demeanor, a bodily check-in to see if he’s still with her. He’s leaning forward in the chair again, arms clasped in front, elbows leaning on his knees. Attentive, for all intents and purposes.  
  
“Now I’m not saying you’re some kind of deviant. Quite the opposite. In fact, I like a challenge. We just need to find a way to help you relax … for your anger.”  
  
At this she gives him an opportunity to accept the offer. She cocks her head at him expectantly, hoping she’s phrased the offer in a way that doesn’t make him feel cornered. In a way that makes him feel like he’s got a partner and a friend, ready to tackle what lies ahead _together_.  
  
He gives her a curt nod. Good, he’s receptive. “So, what do you propose?”  
  
“Well, usually we start with introspection. Figuring out where the anger comes from. However I don’t believe that’s a wise course. We’ve tried facets of that and you’re not very responsive to them. _Not_ your fault,” she punctuates before it can be misconstrued, “I feel as though your anger can become consuming, so we need to work on putting you in a calm state before we even bother digging.”  
  
He doesn’t like the sound of that. She can tell because he’s dropped his face into his palms and is sweeping his hands across it, clearly frustrated. She doesn’t acknowledge the fact that those large hands _do_ things to her. Things she’s been repressing since their sessions started. Since they’ve met, actually. Bristly asshole or not. She pushes aside the attraction she’s been convincing herself daily doesn’t exist. Pretending it’s not those hands working her when she gets herself off thrice a week coinciding with their sessions or on weekends when she’s left alone with her thoughts.  
  
“You’re not going to start asking me to sing kumbaya in some hippie circle jerk or some shit are you?”  
  
Yup, his hackles are rising. She needs to diffuse ASAP.  
  
“No. Actually, I had another idea,” she offers calmly with what she hopes is a warm smile.  
  
“Ok...” his answer is guarded, tentative.  
  
“I want you to lean back, close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Do you think you could do that for me Ben?”  
  
He doesn’t answer, looks annoyed actually, but he follows her instruction nonetheless. She pulls knowledge from the meditative article she’d read over the weekend in the Journal of Psychology & Behavioral Science. Blending those concepts with some of the techniques she’s learned from her Yoga classes. Mentally, she prepares herself - speak in a relaxed, low voice, reduce the timbre, like soothing a child.  
  
“Take a deep breath through your nose, Ben. Hold it in for 5 counts, then release for 5 counts,” her voice dripping now, like honey. Slow, languid, relaxing.  
  
He does as he’s told.  
  
“Good. I want you to continue breathing like that. Bringing your breath into your belly,” she watches for a few minutes as he follows her instruction. Noticing how his breath isn’t straining his dress shirt anymore but expands low in his stomach. Each breath seems to melt off a little of the fury he wraps around himself like a security blanket.  
  
“Now I want you to push out any incoming thoughts. Each time your mind wanders, I want you to push it away, concentrating only on your breathing.”  
  
Again, she notices he does as he’s told. It’s amazing, she thinks, he looks kind, almost boyish in the relaxed state he’s entering. She can almost imagine _this_ Ben saying ‘please’, and ‘thank you’.   
  
She lets him breathe like that for another few minutes, letting him push away the barrage of thoughts that must assuage him. So she contends herself with taking in his appearance while he relaxes further. His shoulders have dropped a smidge, his fists have relaxed and are clasped loosely on his lap. His jaw isn’t clenched tight anymore. She lets him breathe like that until he almost looks to be sleeping.  
  
“Good. Now I want you to imagine a place or situation that makes you feel content. Satisfied,” she begins again, “imagine everything about where you are, what you’re doing.”  
  
He’s visibly relaxed but she can see his fingers twitch, his mouth quirk briefly into what might just be a smile. He’s there, she knows he’s relaxed and in a happy place. Now she needs to extract this and use it for their future therapy sessions, bringing him back there before they can work on his anger.  
  
“What do you see, Ben?” she murmurs soothingly.  
  
He’s relaxed, too relaxed because the voice that he speaks with is an octave lower than usual, lacking his typical tightness.  
  
“I see … you,” he says with a sultry undertone. That makes her smile, the thought that she’s involved in a situation that makes him relax. It’s confirmation that at the very least she’s built a good rapport with him. She isn’t, however, ready for the rest of what comes dripping out in velvety tones.  
  
“You’re wearing nothing, sitting in your chair with your legs over my shoulder. My face is buried in your cunt. I can taste you, _God_ you taste so fucking good.”  
  
His tongue darts out to trace his lower lip, eyes still closed, like he’s actually _tasting_. His body is still fully relaxed except now he’s sporting a bulge she hadn’t registered before.  
  
 _What just happened?  
  
_ Her breath hitches and her eyes grow wide. It’s completely and utterly inappropriate but it’s headway, right? Unconventional sure, but she’s trained to refrain from judgement. Let him talk it out, as long as they find a relaxed state. Maybe she’s just an avatar for repressed sexual frustration. That tends to be an underlying factor to most anger. This isn’t going to impede their progress in _any way_ , right? Not that this’ll stop her from storing the way his voice recites those words for later.  
  
“I can feel you writhing and moaning, your breaths short while I’m laving at your clit. I can feel your hands in my hair, tugging while I’m devouring your sweet pussy. I can feel you clench around my fingers as you come on my tongue.”  
  
Her thighs squeeze together, a telltale dampness growing between her legs. _Fuck_ that actually sounds really good. She must have sucked an audible gasp of air because his eyes snap open just then, boring holes into hers.  
  
“I know how I can relax, Rey,” he says. His voice now low, hypnotic and confident as he sits forward, adjusting in his chair. It’s his meeting persona, ready for the pitch, the kill. She’s seen him in this exact position when she walks by the conference rooms and he’s in with a client. Minus the tented slacks of course.  
  
She’s 100% sure her mouth is hanging open so she snaps it shut only to swallow visibly.  
  
“Let me taste you.”  
  
She crosses her legs, mostly to test whether she’s frozen in place but also to get some much needed friction where she’s starting to desperately need it. Because she is, she’s _aching_. He must have noticed her squirm because his gaze only increases in intensity, eyes darting down once. Placing her pad down on her lap with shaky hands she looks down, away from his piercing eyes.  
  
“Ben, I don’t think…”  
  
“It’s all I think about,” he interrupts in that sinful tone, “since you’ve started here. Everytime I see you I fight the urge to bury my face between your legs. To just _take_ you.”  
  
How is she supposed to keep her shit together when her own personal Adonis incarnate is sitting there with a glorious erection offering her the gift of pleasure?  
  
“I … I …”  
  
“When you first walked in to greet the staff, I imagined sprawling you over that boardroom table, hitching up your skirt and tracing the contours of your pussy with my tongue,” he continues unperturbed while he tugs at his pants, clearly uncomfortable but maintaining his usual deliberate movements, “in front of _everyone._ ”  
  
He leans forward a little more, that predatory look he had in the elevator all those weeks ago on his face, “every session we have I leave angry because I’m fucking hard. I go back to my office to jerk off thinking about you. I think about you sitting on my face, in this chair. Smothering me with your cum.”  
  
He stands up now, his erection clearly straining the front of his slacks which he makes no efforts to hide but doesn’t acknowledge either. One stride towards her, slow, calculated, almost careful but for the burning need she sees in his eyes.  
  
“When I see you take notes, I imagine those fingers pulling my hair while I’m sucking at your clit. Pulling my hair while you come on my tongue and make those soft noises you make when your coffee tastes just right.”  
  
He’s in front of her now, her eyes trained up towards his and she chances a glance down where she can practically smell his arousal. It makes her dizzy with want, shrouds her senses in a haze of lust. She licks her lips subconsciously, her kegels clenching and unclenching in a desperate search for an iota of relief.  
  
He bends over her, places his hands on the arms of her chair, crowding her in. The soft curls of his hair brushing against her cheek as he brings his mouth close to her ear.  
  
“I wanna feel you fuck yourself on my face. Bathe me in your cum, Rey,” he enunciates every word, the saliva in his mouth heightening the seductive monologue he’s delivering.   
  
She thinks for a brief second that her eyes must have rolled into the back of her head as though he’d possessed her. That she’d peaked just from his words. No, maybe it’s because she can feel his hand on her knee, pushing up beneath her pencil skirt, gliding up her thigh.   
  
“You see, Rey, I’d be much more relaxed knowing I made you come. Again and again and again. With my tongue,” he rasps while his plush lip grazes the shell of her ear, “I like a challenge too and I’d like to know how many times I can make you fall apart.”  
  
Her eyes are closed, head tipping back as she surrenders to his presence, body and mind. A whimper escapes her.  
  
“Say you’ll let me ... _Please_.”  
  
His thumb is drawing lazy circles on her inner thigh as it hones in on his target. There’s a desperate tone to his question, like he’s begging. Wait, he is … Ben Solo, _the_ Ben Solo said _please_. Electric shocks travel from each lazy flick of his thumb up her leg, straight to her…  
  
There’s a knock at the door.  
  
“Fuuuuck,” he grunts and tightens his grip on her thigh, just inches from where she yearns to feel the pressure of his large hand. Of that magic thumb of his.  
  
Then, miraculously, he pulls away clearing his throat.  
  
Her vision adjusts only for her to see his eyes glazed with lust, with need. Her eyes dart to the clock and she realizes their session time is up.  
  
“We…” she croaks, her mouth dry. She swallows a few times to lubricate her throat and tries again, her voice hoarse, jittery, “our time is up.”  
  
He nods, a wolfish look in his eyes as he roves the contours of her face, removing his suit jacket to hold in front of him. To hide how affected he is, no doubt. When their eyes meet, she can see his determination and something else - something she doesn’t want to acknowledge. Because acknowledging it means that her answer was going to be _yes_ , that she’d let him do whatever the fuck he pleased with her if he just kept looking at her like _that_ , talking to her like _that_. Especially with the way his voice had quivered when he’d whispered _please_.  
  
A ghost of a smile creeps across his face, it’s almost smug, before he schools it back into his indifferent countenance, then, without any words, he turns and leaves in the same storming manner he’d walked in.

  
  



	5. an admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I honestly thought you’d take longer to decide,” his smooth, deep voice purrs from behind. It sends a shiver down her spine, licks at her nerves like a fire stroked._
> 
> _Rey swivels on the balls of her feet to find him looming in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. His suit jacket is still off but his shirt looks like it’s back to fighting that losing battle against his chest. Clearly only meditative relaxation isn’t enough to calm him. Clearly she knows what he needs to relax but is she willing to cross the threshold to test the hypothesis?_
> 
> _“I actually came to drop off a report Hux left with Finn.” Her words are more of a squeak than a confidently delivered statement._
> 
> _“Aah. I see.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you squint hard enough, you _might_ find a sliver of plot here.

He hadn’t _meant_ to say any of those things. She’d just asked him so _nicely_. Her voice had been so soothing he couldn’t help but follow her instructions. Each sentence bounced around in the cavity of his head over and over until she’d offer the next step. He’d followed them so blindly, so eagerly, until he’d actually been there. Actually felt and tasted and heard all the things he fantasizes about daily. Then when she’d asked it just sort of … slipped.  
  
He _should_ have felt mortified. _Should_ have apologized. It was completely inappropriate. And yet he’d heard her suck in that delicate puff of air. A barely audible gasp that sent a rush of blood straight to his nether region. When he’d opened his eyes, miracle of miracles she’d been staring at him wide eyed, that pretty little mouth agape. The sight before him was a very affected shrink he’d never thought he’d stand a chance with.  
  
 _His_ words affected _her_. And he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’d snapped up the opportunity to lay it out. Sure he’d omitted quite a bit. Stuck to the talking points she responded to, but by _God_ was she responsive. Every calculated move, every slow and deliberate step he made he’d expected her to swat him away and laugh in his face but she just sat there and took it. Like she _wanted_ it.  
  
He’d left feeling about as smug as a bug in a rug. _He_ did that. _She_ wanted _him_. At least in one sense. The one he’d been fantasizing about like a depraved teenager. If it hadn’t been for her next appointment, if he hadn’t been late for his session, he would for sure be wedged between her thighs _right now_ gorging himself on her. Getting his fill. That thought sends a shiver down his spine.  
  
He’s _definitely_ going to try that again, he promises himself as he walks into his office. If she was that responsive this time, he could for sure manage to carve himself a physical piece of her. At least if she’s going to make a mess of him he’ll have pretty memories of her. _Real_ ones. A _real_ taste. It’s within the realm of possibility now and he’s preening in light of that revelation.  
  
Sure, doing _anything_ with her will probably ruin him. But no more that she already has just by sitting across from him forever out of reach. Until today that is. When the door opened just a sliver and he could see the light.

  
  


[X]

  
  


The rest of her appointments that afternoon pass by unceremoniously. She has 2 more appointments with employees to discuss their varying levels of stress and offers them textbook wisdoms which they accept graciously. Then she spends her last hours filing her notes and organizing her appointments for the remainder of the week. She also spends the remainder of the afternoon actively repressing those _words_.  
  
In her calendar she sees appointments with Solo for Wednesday and Friday. It doesn’t surprise her, they’ve been keeping appointments every other day, three times a week, since she started. Only now there’s a static charge in the prospects, threatening to engulf her. Heat creeps down her spine and pools low in her belly at the sight of his name. She’s got a problem she needs to get home and take care of, _soon_.  
  
A soft knock on her door pulls her eyes away from her computer. Finn is standing in her doorway, clutching a batch of files. He lets himself in and sits across from her, balancing the folders on his lap.  
  
“I’m bringing you last week’s staff reports. Do you have yours ready?”  
  
“Uh, yeah. Here,” she opens her top drawer to fish out the files in question, then grabs the ones from today and hands them to Finn.  
  
“How are things going with Grumpy?”  
  
Rey forces a laugh, a stilted dry laugh. How do you broach _that_? ‘Well you see Finn, he offered to go down on me and, well, I can’t stop thinking about it and am horny as hell right now’. No, you don’t just share _that_.  
  
“Good. We ... made headway today.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes, actually. I basically asked him to meditate. Standard therapy didn’t seem to have worked so I figured I’d try getting him in a relaxed state before we started working through his issues.”  
  
“That’s … actually brilliant maneuvering Rey.”  
  
 _Ha. You should have seen what came of it._ “Thank you. It seems to have worked, unfortunately I suggested it a touch late and our session ended before we could delve deeper. But … the relaxation seems promising.”  
  
She doesn’t tell Finn about the proposition or how badly she now aches between her legs for all the sinful things he’d whispered. She doesn’t tell him about how she’s teetering on the edge between barging into Ben’s office and letting him go to town or quitting and moving halfway across the country.  
  
“How are things with _your_ high priority?” she deflects.  
  
“Oh,” Finn smiles, “I have a feeling he’s actually got a crush. I haven’t wormed it out of him yet but I think that’s the reason he’s such an asshole. I’m also 95% sure it’s one of the engineers. One he harasses frequently. A Rose Tico. You know the peppy one who’s always giggling in the lunch room?”  
  
“Huh,” it’s about the only sound she can make right now. It’s starting to feel like their high priority cases seem to be woefully deprived. Now that she thinks about it, maybe that’s all these two really lack. An outlet. Or maybe their _preferred_ outlet since Hux’s escorts don’t seem to be hitting the mark. But she doesn’t want to talk about these things out loud so it’s best to close the topic. “It sounds like you’re making some headway too with yours,” she offers Finn with a smile, “I’m glad we’re both making progress.”  
  
“Me too. I look forward to reading about Grumpy’s in his reports.”  
  
“Mmhmm, just get his back by Wednesday, we have another appointment then,” Rey’s eyes trail behind Finn to the clock. _Fuck_ it’s 5:30.  
  
Finn gets up, picking up his new pile of folders for reading. “As usual. And, Rey? That folder on top there,” he points at a stapled profit report, “Hux left that in my office. It was meant for Grumpy. Mind dropping it off to him? I’ve got to run.”  
  
 _Fuck_.  
  
She nods instead seeing how it’d be impossible to deny him this without drawing suspicion. Besides, it’s after 5. The probability Ben’s still at the office is slim. “Have a good night Finn. See you tomorrow.”  
  
“See you tomorrow,” Finn chimes back happily.  
  
Alone in her office she looks over the pile of staff reports. Her bedtime reading this evening, except she’s not sure how she’ll get much reading done the way she’s wound up.  
  
 _No_ , she’s the mental health professional. Nothing should rattle her this way, she _needs_ to get her shit together. Grabbing the profit report she stands up, pulls down the hem of her skirt and makes her way out of her office on a trajectory to Solo’s. Her determined footfalls silently gliding across the office carpeting.  
  
His door is open but the lights are off. He’s not there and Rey isn’t sure if she’s feeling elated or annoyed by that development. Part of her wants him there so she can confront him and tackle the battle that’s been raging inside her head since his filthy monologue. The other part of her wants to drop off this report, go home, and host a furious masturbation session with her trusty vibrator to work out the pent up sexual tension. She’s got plenty of fodder to wear herself out in record time.  
  
She places the report on his desk and is about to turn when a shadow darkens the room a touch. _Shit_.  
  
“I honestly thought you’d take longer to decide,” his smooth, deep voice purrs from behind. It sends a shiver down her spine, licks at her nerves like a fire stroked.  
  
Rey swivels on the balls of her feet to find him looming in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. His suit jacket is still off but his shirt looks like it’s back to fighting that losing battle against his chest. Clearly _only_ meditative relaxation isn’t enough to calm him. Clearly she _knows_ what he needs to relax but is she willing to cross the threshold to test the hypothesis?  
  
“I actually came to drop off a report Hux left with Finn.” Her words are more of a squeak than a confidently delivered statement.  
  
“Aah. I see.”  
  
He takes a slow, methodical step forward, reaching behind to close the door. The office is darker now, the fading light muted by the frosted glass panels and wooden door. Ben continues taking measured steps towards her, she instinctively backs up until she feels the edge of his desk press into the flesh of her behind. With nowhere to go, she plants her hands on the desk, leaning back, trying to put more distance between them.  
  
No luck. He’s inches from her, crowding her again with his intoxicating presence, hungry eyes boring into hers. There’s something in them, not just lust but something else. It’s softer, gentler even, but it’s heavily guarded. You’d have to squint extra hard to even recognize its presence.  
  
 _He’s waiting for permission_.  
  
“Confidentiality still stand outside the therapy room?”  
  
She nods in response, incapable of using her voice.  
  
“Mmm,” he inhales, nostrils flaring, “this is one of the ways I’ve imagined you. On my desk, legs wrapped tightly around my head. Your pussy dripping down the edge.” His thumb traces a line down the edge of said desk and flicks down, like a lewd enactment of his words.  
  
 _Jesus Christ she’s going to implode.  
  
_ He must take her lack of movement as a sign to continue because his massive hands circle her waist, lifting her the few inches it takes for her to sit on his desk. Rey is all but frozen in place, letting it happen like an out of body experience because … well, does she want this? _Is_ this appropriate? She clearly needs it, he apparently does too. Who is she to deny him something he so desperately wants? Who is it even hurting? This position is temporary anyway, right?  
  
While she’s going through protocols in her mind his hands are travelling down from her waist to her thighs, her knees. There they stop, circling her kneecaps before his fingers splay and begin moving upward again, this time underneath her skirt, lifting it up in the process. His thumbs begin that circling motion from earlier, the one that sent jolts of pleasure straight to her core. But they’re not just drawing circles, no, she mildly registers he’s spreading her legs in tandem. Inching himself closer with every bit of space he creates between them. Her breathing has started coming out in shallow pants.  
  
He stops.  
  
She doesn’t understand why and part of her is screaming for her to _beg_ him to continue, to _move_ , to keep touching. Then, through her lusty haze, she realizes 2 things: he’s still waiting for permission and he simply can’t because her skirt is pinned down where she’s sitting.  
  
Rey isn’t sure what to expect from him at this point. She’s of half a mind he’ll keep whispering the sinful things he wants to do to her while they ride out this stalemate. Things she can use later at home to take care of this problem he’s creating. She’s also convinced he’ll just do it, take what he wants the way men like him do. What she’s not prepared for is what he _actually_ says.  
  
“Let me eat your pussy. _Please_?” There it is again, that _please._ Accompanied by a thumb stroke so, _so_ close to where she needs him. A moan escapes her and her hips cant forward just a smidge in search of contact.   
  
It’s a battle she’s lost. If she’s being honest with herself it was lost when she met this infuriating grump in the elevator on day 1. Defeat clearly written hours ago during their session and full surrender about 30 minutes ago when she resigned to having to get herself off at home again.  
  
Fuck protocol. Fuck her job. Fuck everything but the burning need to let him make good on his word right here right now.  
  
“Yes,” she finally relents breathlessly. Because _yes_ she wants it. _Yes_ she wants him. _Yes_ … it would be nice to actually have what she’s been fantasizing about all these weeks. And don’t his eyes light up like the 4th of July just then? Even with the barely there filtered light seeping into the dark confines of his office she can see how her words spark something akin to joy in him.  
  
It’s all the permission he needs because his hand pushes in just far enough for his thumb strokes to put the _perfect_ amount of pressure on her damp panties. The instant he makes contact she gasps and he groans in contentment. His other arm wraps around her waist lifting her just enough for the hand stroking her core to hike the skirt over her hips. It’s so much more body contact than she’d expected. Then again, she’s not really sure _what_ she expected. All she can think about is how strong his grip is, how solid he feels under that dress shirt, it makes her dizzy with want.  
  
“Fuck. You’re so wet already,” he rumbles in her ear. Filthy words accompanied by steady strokes against her, soaking the fabric through. His free hand spreads her legs impossibly further to accommodate his size.  
  
He leans back, just enough to watch his finger moving between her legs, to take in her modest black seamless panties and the way her pliant flesh moves with his thumb, the way the fabric glistens in its drenched state. Then, he stops, pulls his hand away and she all but whines at the loss of contact. But he doesn’t give her the chance to question his actions because he brings his thumb up to his mouth and sucks it, like he’s cleaning ice cream cone drippings. Lapping and sucking noisily. He groans and _that_ makes her head tip back and her stomach clench with need.   
  
Her movements seem to snap his resolve. “The things I want to do to you…” he murmurs, his left hand grips her thigh tightly while his right gently pushes against her sternum.. Rey leans back willingly, eagerly resting her forearms on his desk because … well she’s going to want to see _this_.  
  
He lets the hand on her sternum trail down while the other reaches for the waistband of her drenched underwear. Once the other joins he slowly pulls them off, the cool air in his office brushing against her slicked core.   
  
“The things I’m _going_ to do to you…” he purrs. It’s slow, languid … _torturous_ , the way he rolls her panties down and down, over her knees and around her feet. Once freed, he takes them, face enraptured, holding them up like a damn souvenir and steps between her legs, crowding her over his desk again. He mouths at the panties and hums appreciatively.   
  
“You taste so fucking good. I knew you’d be delicious,” he groans while he laps at them. His right hand makes contact with her, sliding two fingers between her folds lazily, up and down, pausing over her clit to roll it slowly before resuming the slide down to repeat the motions. She can’t help the way a soft moan escapes her, the way her stomach flexes and her hips lift into his touch.  
  
“So wet,” he rasps against the fabric, hooded eyes delving into hers, non-verbally communicating his pleasure. All the while his fingers stroke between her legs at a torturously slow pace.  
  
Panties wrapped tightly in his hand he brings his fist down to rest beside her, leaning in, inches from her face.   
  
“I’m going to devour your pussy,” he pants, hot and heavy breaths fanning over her lips. He’s close, _so_ close his nose practically brushes against hers. “Gonna make you come all over me. Make a mess of me, Rey.”  
  
Then, without hesitation, he captures her lips. She hadn’t expected _that_. And even if she had, she hadn’t expected it to be like _this_. It’s slow, it’s languid like his movements below. It’s _electric_. His lips are soft and plush as they brush against hers. They fit perfectly. Then his tongue flicks up against her upper lip and she opens up, _blooms_ for him. It’s so perfect she lifts up her arm to place an open palm on his jaw, splaying her fingers and stroking with her thumb which draws a small _mmpf_.  
  
He doubles his efforts, tongue exploreing her mouth, showcasing his prowess, swirling against hers with promises he’s about to make good on. Between the slow but precise laps of his tongue and the lazy movements of his fingers she’s gone boneless, completely pliant to his every whim. Toes curling and legs effectively turned to jello.   
  
His fingers flick against her throbbing bundle _just so_ and she moans into his mouth. That seems to snap something within him because he pulls his hand away, sucking her lip into his mouth greedily before releasing her.  
  
Their eyes meet and he very deliberately brings his slick soaked fingers up to suck them, eyes burning into hers the whole while. “Delicious,” is all he says before he drops to his knees.  
  
“Fuck,” he sucks bruising kisses to her inner thighs, eyes wide with wonder, the heat of his breath stroking over her “I knew you’d have the perfect pussy.”  
  
She’s not really sure what it is about hearing that from him, only that it makes her eyes feel heavy and her heart stutters in her chest. She must have closed her eyes briefly because the next thing she sees is his mouth sealing over her. The sensation is otherworldly. Where she’d spent plenty of time imagining, no amount of fantasy could have prepared her for _this_. For the heat of his mouth, the heavy weight of his tongue, the blissful experience of his actual head between her legs.  
  
He’s definitely making good on his words, devouring her. Tongue soft and flat zig zagging up through her folds before hardening to a point to flick. Rolling her clit with enough pressure to make her thighs quiver and her legs jerk. Of course the bastard doesn’t miss that, he immediately grabs her legs and hoists them over his shoulders, scooting her further down to the edge of his desk. His large hands clamp down on her thighs to hold her steady and open for perusal, only to repeat the motion once, twice. Testing her. _Tasting_ her.  
  
Then his assault begins in earnest, having splayed her to his liking. His rhythm picks up. Pressure varies. Flicking, lapping, sucking, teasing, nibbling, tasting, slurping. She can feel her abdomen clench with need as he edges her closer, winds her up tighter. The wet sounds of her pleasure fill the room, punctuated with his content groans against her. She’s panting and moaning openly, watching him with amazement, like this isn’t real and she’ll wake up from this orgasmic dream any second.  
  
His scruff chafes against her sensitive inner thighs as he delves into her with his tongue, his lips, his teeth. She can’t help the sounds she makes for him. How his name slips from her lips at regular intervals, with each carefully timed flick of his tongue.  
  
“Fuck. Yes ... _Ben_.”  
  
He sucks her bundle between his lips, the added pressure enough to make her back arch but then he starts flicking his tongue and a vibration she barely registers is due to the fact that he’s _moaning_. He’s fucking moaning _with her_. She can’t handle this, she’s certain she’s going to die when she comes which she’s pretty sure is happening _right_ ...  
  
He releases her with a pop. “Did you ever think about this, Rey?” He’s looking up at her expectantly. Fingers tracing lazily up and down her slit. Dipping the tip of his index finger before retracting again. Like he’s enjoying it, like he’s drinking her in laid out before him. Like he’s _trying_ to take his time except he’s biting that plush lip of his like he’s holding something in.  
  
 _Fuck why did you stop?_ She wants to scream but can’t formulate words so she nods instead, barely coherent because...  
  
He’s lapping at her again, fucking her with his tongue, his nose nudging her clit in a newfound torture. His chin and cheeks are covered in a sheen of her making. He’s ravishing her like she’s a damn buffet and he a starved man, using his whole face. Baptizing himself between her legs.  
  
“I’ve wanted to do this since I met you,” he punctuates with a series of hyperspeed flicks of his tongue against her sensitive bud that put her vibrator to shame. It sends a jolt down her spine and rips a series of undignified moans from her.  
  
“Every,” _lick_ , “fucking,” _suck_ , “day.”  
  
He pulls away again. Only for his index finger to slip low, pressing inside and the stretch of a single one of his fingers makes her writhe and gasp. She hears him murmur an expletive while he rests his cheek against her inner thigh. Watching his finger delve into and out of her slowly. “You’re so _fucking_ tight,” his mouth latches onto her for another series of heavy laps.  
  
“Tell me...” he disengages to watch his finger glide in and out again, adding another for a delicious stretch that makes her stomach clench again, “tell me you’ve thought about this.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He simply latches on again ravenously.  
  
“Yes, yes,” she reaches her hand to grab at his hair, grinding against him which only seems to spur him on, “I do, Ben, fuck … I have … every day.”  
  
His rhythm stutters, like she’s thrown him a curveball he wasn’t anticipating. It does him in. She’s barely coherent but sees the way his eyes light up in pleasure at her words, at her admission. _You’re gonna come now_ , they say. _Make a mess of me, Rey,_ plays on repeat in her head.  
  
He seals his lips over her clit and begins to let loose wave after wave of suction while his fingers stroke inside her. A combination that brings her to the very edge. Of her sanity, of the impending orgasm, of his fucking desk. Her legs shake and toes curl and then he does the miraculous. While he’s firmly latched around her, the point of his tongue circles her exposed bundle in a swirl that’s so gentle, so tender it’s barely there yet it manages to tip her over the edge instantly.  
  
Her orgasm washes over her like a tidal wave. She comes with a guttural moan, fingers curling into his hair tightly, pushing his face into her, continuously seeking the intoxicating friction he provides. Her vision whites out and her cunt explodes in the fantastic orchestral crest of his making.  
  
Ben works her through the intense orgasm until her body falls limply against his desk. He releases her thighs slowly, gently. Lapping at her with soft strokes of his tongue. Her body jerks the few times he runs his tongue over her oversensitized flesh. His fingers pull out in a wet squelch and begin to run up and down her thighs soothingly, painting her with her own juices. Mouth wandering to drink in her come, to indulge, to savour.   
  
She’s not sure how long they stay like this in her incoherent state but suddenly, unexpectedly, he’s gone. Where there was the heat of his mouth, the weight of his arms on her thighs, his presence in the space between them, now there’s nothing. He returns before the emptiness can fully manifest and wipes her down with a batch of napkins he’s procured from somewhere in his office.  
  
Slowly coming to herself, Rey lifts her head up to look at him, _really_ look at him now that they’ve crossed the line. He looks fascinated, like she’s plucked the stars out of the sky and handed them to him on a silver platter.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispers … mostly to her cunt.  
  
She cocks her head in surprise. Here’s a man, master of _no_ , the office grump, with a blissed out smile on his face and eyes full of wonder. Here’s the man who managed to avoid office etiquette at every turn, _thanking her_ … for giving _her_ the most intense orgasm of her life.  
  
Where they go from here, she doesn’t know, but she’s certain they’re doing _that_ again.  
  
His eyes are gleaming, a boyish smile on his face. She hardly recognizes him.  
  
“We ... we’re doing _that_ again?”


	6. a concession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rey’s not really listening. Eyes glazed, she’s looking at his file on her desk, marked up with Finn’s neat post it notes. She doesn’t see that though. She sees the boyish smile on his face, sees his hooded eyes from between her legs, his tongue flicking up and over her._
> 
> _“Solo? The meditation you did worked. He smiled today and said good morning.”_
> 
> _“Aah. Yes I wonder how long that will last.”_
> 
> _“Are you going to implement meditation for every session?”_
> 
> _Well, is she? Considering meditation is code for having his face wedged between her thighs, is she willing to do that again?_

Getting into his car in the underground he’s utterly convinced he’s a fucking moron.  
  
After she’d come apart so prettily on his tongue, he’d basked in her afterglow. Her physical contentment all but palpable in the room, like a warm and cozy bubble that contained just them. She was utterly fucking perfect. It wasn’t everything he thought it would be - it was _more_. His ultimate goal was for her to fall apart for him but he realizes, sitting in the confines of his car, that the one who came apart was him and he didn’t mind at all. For her, he’d willingly blow himself to pieces any fucking day.  
  
He’d asked her if he could do it again and she’d smiled at him, a wholesome, blissed out smile. She fucking _smiled_ … at _him_. Nobody does that. He’s pretty sure he’s made babies cry. Laying all spread eagle across his desk, her juices dripping over the edge while he held back the urge to lick it off the wood, like a picnic spread just for him, she’d wordlessly agreed. It was a sight to behold, a moment his stars aligned because she’d _agreed_. And he, like the idiot he is, said the dumbest thing he could say. The worst fucking thing that could possibly slip from his ridiculously oversized mouth.  
  
“I can’t wait for our next session.”  
  
That seemed to wipe the languid smile off her face and she grew rigid. The air in the room shifting from sexually charged to uncomfortable at the drop of a hat. He’d forfeited her panties, a souvenir he’d wanted to keep, and let her straighten herself out. Leaving without saying a word while he stood dumbly in the corner adjusting himself in his slacks. Because he did that. He’d ruined the moment. Like he ruins everything.  
  
He’d had a chance to test the waters, to ask for more. The stage was set, it was open and ready for him to lay it all out. _Fuck_ he _wants_ more. He wants her not just in the office on a desk or those blue fucking therapy chairs. He wants her in _his_ bed, in _her_ bed, in his _house_ , in his _life_. Maybe watch that Alien anthology together, or play more board games. He’d let her win all the time for Christ’ sake. Forsake the need to dominate for her. He’s never felt so comfortable with someone before, not after what they’ve done. Usually it’s transactional so when it's done and he’s satisfied his craving he leaves, but not _her_. He definitely wants more _of_ her. But in less than a dozen words he’d made sure that would never happen.  
  
It’s what he deserves, he resigns putting the car in reverse. Men like him don’t deserve women like her. She’s sunshine incarnate. A picture of positivity and strength. Women like her deserve men who dote on them, put them on a pedestal, snuggle on Saturday nights and laze in bed with Sunday morning breakfasts. Not quick fucks in dark office corners with emotionally constipated assholes. Though he imagines fucking her anywhere would be nothing short of a divine experience. And now that he knows the noises she can make, he can only imagine how little he’d last inside her, like a fucking virgin reborn.  
  
What’s worse was her face. That’s what’s tearing him up inside. The way her smile waned, the way his words snuffed the light in her eyes. That’s what he’s good at isn’t it? Ruining things? Snuffing out whatever little bit of light he finds in people.  
  
He sighs dejectedly, popping the car into drive and maneuvering out of the underground. No. He’s ruined enough things in his life. For this one he’ll fight. He’ll see her again tomorrow and if not then, well there’s always Wednesday’s session. He’ll try, then, to say everything he needs to say. He’ll try to give her what she wants from him because she’d already given him everything he’d asked of her and more.

  
  


[X]

  
  


“That meditation really seems to have worked on Grumpy.”  
  
Finn and Rey have their Tuesday morning discussion on their files, except it’s Wednesday. Finn had a family emergency. His boyfriend Poe had gotten in a minor fender bender and he’d taken the day to look after him. Rey had spent Tuesday digging into her files, drafting up coping plans for a few stress cases and a few confidence builders for other cases, all while completely avoiding leaving the confines of her office. She’d succeeded too, avoiding Ben completely. Because she’s not sure she can face him. Not after Monday. Not after what they’d done. Then again, maybe _he_ was avoiding _her_. She couldn’t be sure. The few times she did venture out he hadn’t been milling about.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
Rey’s not really listening. Eyes glazed, she’s looking at his file on her desk, marked up with Finn’s neat post it notes. She doesn’t see that though. She sees the boyish smile on his face, sees his hooded eyes from between her legs, his tongue flicking up and over her.  
  
“Solo? The meditation you did worked. He smiled today and said good morning.”  
  
“Aah. Yes I wonder how long that will last.”  
  
“Are you going to implement meditation for every session?”  
  
Well, is she? Considering meditation is code for having his face wedged between her thighs, is she willing to do that again?   
  
Coming from his ministrations was an out of body experience. Like floating among the clouds, being shown all the beautiful things the world has to offer. Only, she was yanked back to earth with the reminder that it was just his preferred method of relaxation. A form of stress relief at the office. While some had squishy stress balls, fidget cubes, or afternoon siestas at their desk, he wanted to eat her out. She was merely a means to an end. No, doing that again was _not_ a good idea for her emotionally.  
  
“We’ll see. It seems promising but that’s not the scope of the sessions. We’re cognitive behavioral therapists, not yogis. If meditation works, he should be doing it on his own time.”  
  
Finn looks confused, “but, Rey? If it works, isn’t it worth exploring as an avenue? If the aim is to change a behavior and the exercise achieves that goal, it _should_ become part of your arsenal for the case.”  
  
He’s right. Psychologically, to change a pattern of behavior she’d seek to reprogram her patient to associate a negative stimulus with rational thought. She’d found the association mechanism but hasn’t had a chance to help him connect the calm of the _after_ with the anger of the _before_. Or to use the calm to tackle the before in the after. God this is confusing when you’ve got a pair of honey flecked eyes glaring at you in your mind’s eye.  
  
“You’re right, we’ll see how today goes,” she concedes but represses her doubts. “How’s Hux?” She deadpans to avoid talking anymore about Ben.   
  
Truth is, she’s not sure she _can_ do this. The way he made her feel, the way he _looked_ at her, it was all treading dangerous waters. He needs someone to relieve his tension (clearly sexually rooted) but he’s volatile. Incapable of communication. He’s willing to up and leave if the situation doesn’t suit him, an act that unsettled her for personal reasons. Whoever is in his crosshairs is inching towards disaster and … hurt feelings. He’s bound to get tired of this method, bound to get tired of _her_. Everyone always does. Discard her that is. Like she’s nothing. She’s not sure she’s willing to put herself up as collateral for one man’s gains.  
  
“I don’t want to ruin your reading for next week, but…” Finn leans over her desk, clutching his coffee mug, “spoiler alert! It’s confirmed he has a crush on that Tico engineer. And he’s got it _bad_.” Finn’s snorting.   
  
“You were right on the money there,” she compliments his achievement, “that’s a breakthrough. Has he… talked to her?”  
  
“In a capacity outside of belittling her? No,” Finn sits back more seriously, “his dad was a bit rough with him. Shoot, spoiler alert again. This morning was full of revelations for him. He didn’t get much love growing up so he thinks yelling at people is showing he cares.”  
  
Rey just nods. It sounds plausible. Then again, anything seems plausible given the events of the last 48 hours.  
  
“I suggest you try it again,” Finn points at the thick folder labeled ‘Solo’ while taking a big gulp of coffee, “... meditation that is. Luke wouldn’t take too kindly to knowing you’ve found a solution but won’t apply it because it’s not on the roster.”  
  
And therein lies the crux. To _do_ her job means to put her heart on the line, to eventually be thrown to the wayside by someone she’s avoiding feelings for. To _not_ do her job would be doing her academic duty, remaining professional. Then again, she doesn’t think Luke would take too kindly to performing sexual acts with patients during therapy sessions in exchange for their personal epiphanies. So that counts for something, doesn’t it?   
  
She only nods deep in thought.

  
  


…

  
  


It’s 1:40 PM. Their scheduled appointment time was 1:00 PM. It’s safe to say, he’s avoiding her.   
  
Rejection coils in her stomach, dark and uninvited. She’d spent her lunch hour _not_ eating lunch while her nerves danced her on the precipice of an anxiety attack. Then, when 1:00 PM rolled around, she’d sat in her chair, door open wide, fidgeting in nervous anticipation. She stayed like that for the better part of the past half hour, doubt seeping in with each passing minute he didn’t show.  
  
Ironically, before 1:00 PM, she was anxious about having to face him. Not knowing what to say or do. Not knowing how to tackle the emotional and physical mess he’d made of her on his desk. Now that it’s clear he’s not showing, her anxiety is of a different kind. He _doesn’t_ want her. He’d gotten what he wanted and he’d moved on. He’d called it a challenge right? Well he’d hoisted his flag on that mountain, conquered that quest. He’s got no need for her now. She’s just another notch on his belt.  
  
Rey swallows the lump in her throat and sets aside her notepad, standing up to smooth down her short sleeved shift dress, ready to close her door and put the remaining 20 minutes to good use. It’s only two more months, she thinks. After that she can put this behind her and figure out how to move on with her life. Maybe she’ll ask Mothma to switch the high priority cases. Make up one reason or another why it’d be good for Ben to get a different therapist’s perspective. It wouldn’t be difficult, really. Not with the way Mothma had already offered to switch him before things got complicated.  
  
Then again, Finn had broken through Hux’s barriers. Resetting him would be a disservice to both their achievements. She’d be crapping on their hard work by making the request, wouldn’t she?  
  
Rey’s by the door, hand on the knob pushing it closed when Ben slides into her office like he’s been running. He’s out of breath, looks mildly disheveled as he barges in. His hands are balling into fists as he stands there looking every inch distraught.  
  
“Sorry, had to meet with IT,” he pants breathlessly, “about the new app and the meeting ran late.”  
  
Rey can’t help but stare, frozen in place. Of all the ways she thought the next time they’d see each other would go, this was definitely not one of them. Hand still clasping the door knob, she just looks at him. Trying to read him, figure out what to say, what to _do_.  
  
Does she send him away? Most of their session has already been wasted, or does she invite him in? What does she say? How do they navigate past Monday? How does _she_ navigate past _that_ orgasm?  
  
Traces of her rejection must be written on her face because in the blink of an eye he’s pushed the door closed, crowding her against it while his fingers click the lock shut. He’s close, _so close_ she can’t breathe again. Caged between his arms, his face inches from hers.  
  
“I - I don’t think…”  
  
“They’re fucking morons, Rey. I’m pent up beyond belief. I _need you_.”  
  
And there goes her resolve, flying out the window at the desperation in his voice. He leans down and kisses her soundly against the door then. There’s no slow build up. It’s not languid like last time. It’s encompassing, bruising. His tongue delves past her lips to devour her mouth giving her no room to reconsider. His right hand hones in on the hem of her dress and pulls up and up until his fingers graze his target.  
  
Ben deepens their kiss while his fingers find the edge of her panties, pushing them aside to make skin to skin contact. There’s no fanfare. Like his kiss, he’s on a mission and she’s too overwhelmed to stop him. Not that she wants to. Now that he’s here, on her, she realizes that he _does_ want her. He’s _not_ rejecting her. In fact, he seems to need her even more. There are words floating in the air, in the small spaces between their tongues and bodies that she could practically reach out and grasp. All she can do is groan an ‘ _mmmhmm’_ into his mouth as she comes unraveled for him.  
  
His middle and ring fingers trace her slit and he moans into her mouth when he feels her readiness. The vibration in her mouth, the rumble from his chest pressed to hers, do _things_ to her. If she’s honest with herself, she’d been growing increasingly aroused since well before lunch. This is the relief she’s been craving. Even if she wasn’t willing to allow herself to think about it.  
  
“I ran up here,” he presses a series of hard pecks against her open mouth, “took the stairs,” he pants against her, “couldn’t wait for the elevator.” Another heavy, open mouthed kiss that’s clumsy. Full of clattering teeth and sloppy tongues.  
  
He pulls his mouth away to start nipping and sucking at her jaw down into the crook of her neck. “You have no idea,” he traces a circle around her clit with his fingers then dips them down to her entrance, “how much I need this, sweetheart.”  
  
The words are punctuated by a soft bite, hot suction against her neck, then gentle laps of his tongue. Then, as suddenly as everything else since he’d barged in, she feels his middle finger push inside and she’s lost. Lost in the sensations this man gives her. Lost in the pleasure he promises with his words, his body. She lets her head drop limply against the door and moans softly. The endearment he’d spoken all but lost in the flurry of dopamine her body is flooded with.  
  
His finger is pushing in and out of her at a steady pace, the palm of his hand pressing _exactly_ where she needs friction while he ravishes her neck.  
  
“Fuck you feel so good,” he rasps against the column of her neck as he slowly eases his ring finger in to join the other. She feels so _full_. Her own fingers at least half the size of one of his. Just two of him fill her better than any vibrator or past lover she’s ever had.   
  
His head moves back up to capture her lips again in a string of hungry, passionate kisses. The way he’s rhythmically pumping into her, crooking his fingers just _so_ to brush that spongy area inside jolt her arms up against his chest. Her fingers rove over the expanse of him just as his fingers find purchase inside her. His thumb finds her bundle of nerves and he unleashes an assault of grinding and pumping on her cunt. She wraps her arms around his neck, fingernails scraping his scalp, grabbing handfuls of his hair and he moans. He _moans_ at giving _her_ pleasure. _Again_.  
  
The hand he was using to prop himself against the door drops to her hip, grasping her with bruising force. Her leg responds in turn by rising up to wrap around his hip where she can _feel_ him. The hot, hard length of him and it’s heady, dizzying, the things he does to her. He starts thrusting himself against her inner thigh, never letting up his assault on her mouth or cunt. They moan and groan together at intervals. Breathing heavily, needily, into each other’s mouths.  
  
She’s drunk on him, on the sensations he elicits and she feels a fire blooming in her lower abdomen. An orgasm building as he steadily rubs and grinds, kisses and thrusts. The orgasm that inevitably erupts from her on a quiet whimper (conscious of their proximity to the outside world) renders her boneless once more. She’s fluttering around his fingers, clamping and squeezing him with everything she has. Sounds dampen in her ears, her legs and body tremble uncontrollably. She’s barely aware of him grunting and a wetness growing against her thigh. He too must have come.  
  
Movements slow as they come down from their frenzy. He disengages their mouths, plants soft kisses against her lips, against the corners of her mouth, before leaning his forehead against hers breathing heavily. The hand gripping her hip runs gently down her thigh to release her from his hip, guiding it to the ground tenderly before coming back up to prop her by the waist. His torso never leaves her, still pressed together tightly, holding her up, supporting her in the liquid state he’s reduced her to.  
  
They stand catching their breaths for a few more moments, finding their center after the intensity. His fingers slide out of her with an audible squelch, it makes her wince but he pays no attention. Instead he brings his fingers up between their faces and sucks them clean, letting her watch the lewd display from their afternoon tryst. There’s a flicker in his eye, one she barely sees in her lusty haze but it’s there, it’s a glint of determination.  
  
“Do you … do you still want to talk? About … stuff?”  
  
She’s not really present. Her body still singing, her hearing still dampened, heart still pounding in her chest, vision still hazy and distorted, but somehow she manages a nod.  
  
“Good,” he says cradling her jaw with his cleanly sucked hand, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. These are not the actions of a man searching for release, scratching an itch, fucking and chucking.  
  
“I … my parents weren’t really around growing up. I was predominantly raised by nannies and they catered to my every whim,” he murmurs between heavy breaths as his thumb strokes her cheek.  
  
“Every need but one,” he amends.  
  
There’s a beat of silence as she processes the words he’d spoken, like context was catching up to the string of words he’d just said. “Sexual?” she hears her own voice whisper quietly.  
  
At that he huffs a soft laugh, “I was a child, silly,” he punctuates with a soft kiss to her nose that makes her head swim.  
  
“An emotional child. The only thing they couldn’t give me was the affection I craved from my parents.”

  
  



	7. a pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _By the end of the third week he’s buried between her legs while she’s splayed across the coffee table, her skirt hiked up past her hips, her fingers pushing his lush hair out of his face, drinking in his expression as he languidly laps at her after her second orgasm. She’s damp with sweat, as is his brow. His face is a complete shiny mess. He sucks on that soft spot on her inner thigh again and tells her he wishes she had one of those shrink sofas they show in movies._
> 
> _“What makes you say that?” she’d asked smiling while her fingers carded through his hair lazily._
> 
> _“I could lay back and you could sit on my face,” was his answer. It was open, honest, with no pretense._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out I have a thing for moody cranky Ben who's really a softie on the inside. I STG every time I write him this is what happens.

They fall into a quiet routine. If you can consider being eaten out within an inch of your life and having to stifle your orgasms three times a week a quiet routine.  
  
It works for them.   
  
The first weeks he’s ravenous each time yet tentative. He’s learning her. She can tell by how he teases her, how he tests the boundaries, trying something new then immediately looking up to analyze her face. He finds the spot on her inner thighs that never fails to make her squirm and gasp. From then on he sucks a bruise into each side every time before they get started. He gives her a very private hickey that will probably never heal.  
  
He always starts by kissing her, too. A fringe benefit, she thinks, though probably unhealthy. She understands the benefits of sexual gratification on mental health and is willing to twist that knowledge into a semblance of reason for their trysts. But the kissing is _definitely_ not sexual. Sure it’s the precursor to the act but it’s too tender. Too sweet. Too … intimate. Beyond scratching the proverbial itch.  
  
She doesn’t mind though. It makes her feel like he wants her. Wants her beyond just the act. She’s well aware she’s treading dangerous waters but can’t help melt into the promises his kisses hold. She’ll analyze it later, she tells herself every time.  
  
She never does.

  
  


…

  
  


By the third week of their newfound pattern she’s got a solid map of his childhood and adolescence. It’s in pieces, barely the scaffolding, but it’s foundation enough to concede what they’re doing is actually working beyond just sexual gratification.  
  
He’s told her about the emotional outbursts he’d have with his mother, Leia. How he’d hated her in his adolescence. How she’d meet each of his emotional needs with either a small smile or a pat on the head accompanied by a ‘there, there’ before disappearing to a gala, business meeting or her office. How his outbursts would escalate in intensity just to get a reaction out of her. She’d only engage him a few times and usually when he’d use obscene language and break things, screaming at the top of his lungs. That’s why he’s so quick to anger, she deduces. Because it’s how he gets what he wants. It’s textbook really, even if the methods of extraction aren’t.  
  
Finn commends her on the progress she’s making with Grumpy. Tells her of the feedback he’s gleaned from his own sessions with others. How they say he’s not as grating. How they’re not shitting their pants when he walks into the room or past them. That counts for something, right?  
  
He’s also begun doubling his efforts. Most sessions, now that he knew how to make her come, are spent coaxing two orgasms out of her. His technique has become refined. Assaulting her body earnestly to rip the first orgasm out of her within minutes then working her slowly to build a second, more powerful one. She’s 100% sure it’s him making good on the challenge of making her scream. She’s also sure it’s a test of limits, like he’s trying to break her.  
  
By the end of the third week he’s buried between her legs while she’s splayed across the coffee table, her skirt hiked up past her hips, her fingers pushing his lush hair out of his face, drinking in his expression as he languidly laps at her after her second orgasm. She’s damp with sweat, as is his brow. His face is a complete shiny mess. He sucks on that soft spot on her inner thigh again and tells her he wishes she had one of those shrink sofas they show in movies.   
  
“What makes you say that?” she’d asked smiling while her fingers carded through his hair lazily.  
  
“I could lay back and you could sit on my face,” was his answer. It was open, honest, with no pretense.  
  
Part of her thinks that maybe it would also help him with their sessions. Maybe that’s the part of her that’s deluding herself thinking she’s not catching feelings. Because the majority of her is screaming they could use that couch to fuck. Because that’s what she’s starting to realize she wants from him. She wants more _of_ him. She wants _all_ of him, not just his tongue and fingers.

  
  


…

  
  


By the end of the 4th week on a Friday morning, she gets to meet Leia who stops by her office with Amilyn. There’s commotion behind them as they’re making small talk. Then two men come into view carrying a chaise, brand new based on the wrapping. Leia guides them around the room to position it, asking Rey for input on placement.  
  
She’s not really sure how she speaks, what with the way her ears are buzzing with the arrival and how she can already see them doing all sorts of unprofessional things on it. _He had this done for her, for him, for them_. She swallows her shock instead. Her shock at the new arrival. At the fact that his _mother_ is standing right there guiding a piece of furniture requested for reasons much more perverse than Leia is probably aware of. Rey only decides it’d be best situated across from her chair, re-adjusting the original patient seat perpendicular.  
  
Finn stops by to whistle appreciatively, mentioning he’d like to ask for one too. Rey just hums in confirmation and goes back to pretending to read a file.  
  
It doesn’t take long for them to christen the chaise. The minute he walks in he sees it and his eyes glitter with childlike joy. He locks the door pronto, kisses her soundly then pulls her to it. Laying down, he wordlessly implores her to do what he’d asked. So she obliges him, letting him peel off her panties and hiking up her skirt to straddle his face.   
  
It’s a new angle, one that gives him access _to_ and complete mastery _of_ the spots he already knows how to pluck like the strings of an acoustic guitar. He begins by tracing the contours of her cunt, nudging her clit with his nose, then setting a punishing pace of flicks and suction with his tongue and lips on her. He makes her come, twice. Each time she feels her juices slide down his chin making him slide against her thighs easily. Each time she feels the added friction from her weight bearing down on his face. Each time she thinks she’s pressing on his face too hard he moans his contentment and pulls her closer by the waist.  
  
When she’s perfectly boneless but attempts to get off him, to give him the stage so they can talk, he pulls her back, sitting up so he can cradle her in his lap. She expects him to start recounting outbursts. Instead he buries his face in her neck, nuzzling and kissing her there while his hands snake between their bodies to rub circles against her. Two fingers find their way inside her. His thumb flicks at her oversensitized bud ruthlessly as he rubs against that spot inside her. A third orgasm washes over her.  
  
Their session ends without a single word being said.  
  
They’ve crossed the line into three orgasms and zero therapy.

  
  


…

  
  


The entirety of the 5th week they’d spent in exactly that state. He’d spent every single second of each of their hour on each of their session days with her sitting on his face. Chasing a third orgasm. He’d gone back to being ravenous. They also didn’t talk much outside of ‘this good’, ‘fuck Rey,”, “come on my tongue,’ various moans, groans, pleas and the grunting of each other’s names.  
  
The 6th week marked a massive shift in their new dance. His hunger turning into something else, something softer, needier. He’d stopped trying to push her body into multiple orgasms. Stopped applying the right pressure and started teasing again, relishing. He’d started spending more time kissing her, more time touching her. That Wednesday he’d reached his hand up to grope her breast over her dress, the first time he’d ever done that.   
  
That Friday he didn’t use his mouth at all. He’d instead sat her astride his lap, kissing her gently, slowly, _torturously_ while his hands got to work. He’d slid through her folds, dipped into her needy core, thumb at her throbbing bundle until she’d squirm, moaning her release into his mouth. Then he’d trailed his slicked fingers up her thigh to grip the soft flesh of her hips and began canting her against him, making a mess of his pants. That’s how her second orgasm washed over her, rocking against the hardness enclosed in his slacks. Rubbing against the coarse, wet fabric of his trousers. Their mouths never disconnecting.  
  
When they’d both climaxed (together surprisingly) he held her, rocking her gently, wrapped in his strong encompassing arms. They stayed like that, sticky with their own fluids, wrapped around each other tightly for the rest of the session. Not a word is exchanged. The column of her neck peppered with tender kisses.  
  
She goes home and spends the entire weekend avoiding analyzing Friday completely. Her vibrator doesn’t see the light of day (or night). 

  
  


…

  
  


The 7th week is a short one. It’s the week of a long weekend. They spend Monday’s session repeating last Friday, their movements more frenzied, their kisses hungrier, needier. From the pent up need over the weekend, she infers.  
  
She doesn’t want to analyze that it happened again, having resigned to herself over the weekend that it was a fluke. He’d just been feeling needy that afternoon and she filled that void. But she can’t help, standing across from Finn in his room later while not really listening to what he’s saying, replaying the moments.   
  
He _wants_ her, doesn’t he? She’d had to resort to making up his progress reports since they hadn’t actually tackled his anger in weeks, not that they needed to. Based on Finn’s reports he’d actually become pleasant with the other staff members. HR had called to congratulate her. He’d actually had a claim redacted by an employee because he’d _apologized_. They said the employee and Solo had worked out their differences and everything was right as rain.  
  
Sitting in her chair on Wednesday, waiting for him to show up was torture. Today held the weight of two sessions, because Friday’s was off the table. Friday they were closed for the long weekend. And to top it off next week is the last of the contract. Rey is staring at her notepad realizing she’d been doodling hearts. _Hearts_ like a lovesick teenager.  
  
 _This isn’t love_ , she reminds herself. Of the three components of triangulate love, they only really share one, maybe two: passion (and maybe intimacy). With one component that puts them in the realm of _infatuation_ , with two, well that puts them in the realm of _romantic_.  
  
They _may_ like each other, they may even feel romantically inclined towards each other, but what this really boils down to is lust and attraction. All further distilled to just passion with a dash of intimacy. It’s pure and simple fucking. Then again, they’re not actually fucking. That bothers her, doesn’t it? Because she _wants_ to have him. _All_ of him, and is being denied that.  
  
What’s really missing from their equation is commitment. That’s the third aspect that they haven’t touched on, one she feels they won’t touch on at all and it splinters something inside. Because she’s come to learn that beneath that bristly asshole exterior, beneath that angry show he puts on for everyone, he’s really just someone with an emotional need that nobody’s been able to fulfill. He’s really just as soft, just as afraid of loneliness as she, as everyone else. She can read it clear as writing in the way he looks at her, the way he touches her. His body communicating those facts to her wordlessly.  
  
She knows she’s caught feelings for him, strong ones. She can _see_ herself committing to him. A thought that used to scare her when they’d started on this questionable road but as they progressed she’d warmed up to the thought of him. He seemed receptive to her as well. She should _try_ …  
  
There’s a knock at the door and her heart skips a beat because, without looking up she knows who it is.  
  
Ben Solo is standing in the doorway looking right predatory. She lets him in with a small nod and he shuts the door quietly, flipping the lock in place. In three of his large strides he’s in front of her, bending over her seated body, capturing her mouth in a consuming kiss. It’s the same intensity, the same need he brings in every time. Plundering her mouth like it’s the last time, and for all intents and purposes, until next week, it is.  
  
She moans softly into his mouth, dropping her notepad in lieu of wrapping her arms around his neck. He responds to her in stride by lifting her out of her chair by the waist, coaxing her legs to wrap around him, carrying her to the chaise.   
  
Sitting himself in the middle he wrangles her legs to straddle him in a way that presses her core against him. _Again_ , she thinks, they’re going to procure this semblance of sex without actually performing the act. His arm snakes between them and his fingers get to work immediately sliding beneath the fabric of her panties.  
  
She’s wet, _of course_ she’s wet. Has been well before their session in anticipation. He hums his approval into her mouth, running his free arm up her spine to cup the back of her head and deepen the kiss. His fingers dance a slow, lazy pattern over her throbbing clit and her breath hitches. There’s something both desperate and intimate about his movements. He continues swirling his middle finger through her folds, back up to circle her clit, increasing the pressure while never stopping their kiss. Building her up slowly, brick by brick, like a Jenga tower. Until she crests, that is, when he inevitably builds her to the peak and the tower crumbles. It’s not unexpected. The way she responds to him is beyond her understanding. She just knows that her body willingly complies to his every stroke, his every want.  
  
He’s holding her through the aftershocks, cradling her, running his fingers through the slick juices she’s all but bathing his hand in and _still_ he hasn’t stopped kissing her.  
  
When he feels her coming back to balance, her erratic heartbeat slowing down, his slicked hand once again finds her hip to start an unhurried grind. They’re doing it again, that cheap knock-off pretend sex when she’d really just like the real deal.  
  
Rey lets the pleasure build between them, feels his cock twitch between her grinding where she’s soaked his pants through. Listens to the telltale moans and groans she’s come to know so intimately until she knows he’s fully immersed. It’s time to test the waters. If he’s receptive to this, perhaps commitment is also within the realm of possibility.   
  
Her hand squeezes between their pressed bodies and she runs her palm over his hardness. The only response she gets from him is what she interprets as a satisfied groan, a hip thrust, and a twitch against her fingers. _Promising_.  
  
She continues to palm at his head over his pants as she grinds down the rest of him at the same tempo he’d set. Kissing him back, communicating her need for him wordlessly. He’s letting her, but he makes no motion to take it further. So _she_ does.  
  
Her fingers graze the button of his slacks, unhooking it deftly. The only sign he’s aware of her boldness is his breath hitching. She continues by palming further down, tracing his shaft and zipper and coming back up to pinch the pull. She gives it an experimental tug.   
  
That’s when his hand flies from her hip to grasp her wrist, stopping her.   
  
“No,” he groans into her mouth, “no.”  
  
He doesn’t want her. It shouldn’t surprise her but it stings all the same. So that’s all it was, after all, just intimacy. He just happens to be a very passionate person from what she’d gathered in the sessions he _did_ share. She’s just a vessel. An outlet.   
  
The realization shouldn’t hurt, that’s what therapists are. Conductors or outlets, helping their patients sort through their problems. The only issue is, it’s supposed to be objective and right now, she’s too involved.   
  
It hurts. It hurts to be used by him like this, when she feels so much, even if he’d never given her reason to. Her treacherous heart went and did it anyway.  
  
But he’s also not stopping. He brings the hand he’s gripping up to his chest, over his heart and presses it there. What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?   
  
And then his hands roam lower to grab at the soft flesh of her ass, kneading, massaging, pulling her into him, thrusting up against her needily. This is more an imitation of sex than any before. It’s making her head spin with confusion and pleasure.   
  
The head of his cock catches against her again and again. His tongue delves that much deeper, massaging hers in long, deep strokes. If he doesn’t want to fuck then what the hell is this if not sex between a few thin scraps of fabric?  
  
She can’t think, her thoughts being drowned out by the waves of intensifying pleasure he’s unleashing on her senses. She can feel herself tighten again, like a coil winding to spring. He’s moaning and panting with every thrust. These are not the sounds or actions of a man who doesn’t want her, are they?   
  
It’s too much. Too _fucking_ much because, oh, oh, _ohhh_ she’s coming on a deliciously heavy thrust. And like last time, within two strokes he crests just after her. The wetness of his cum adding to the heady scent between their bodies, where she’s glued to him riding out the waves of her second orgasm.  
  
The grip on her hips eases from bruising and possessive to tender. His thumbs start drawing lazy circles on her hip bones then his hands begin to venture up. Up to her waist to draw lazy circles into her sides and across her stomach. Further up beneath her breasts to draw the same circles to the underside, over her bralette, drawing a shiver from her. Up to her breasts to draw circles over her thinly veiled nipples, pebbling them in the process.  
  
She tries to pull back her head, to catch his eyes, to look for a semblance of sense in this complete emotional mess he’s made of her yet again without speaking a single word. But he chases her mouth with his, letting his hands snake from her breast behind her back to pull her closer, to envelope her in him.  
  
No. These are _definitely_ not the actions of a man who doesn’t want her. He’s kissing her gently, his tongue less greedy, more delicate. He strokes into her mouth with softer, shallower laps. Sucking her bottom lip almost playfully. Like they’re just getting started not coming off an hour long frenzy.  
  
An hour. Shit their time must be up.  
  
She pulls her head away again, more insistently and he ruefully lets her go. Her eyes dart to the clock to confirm that yes, they’re a few minutes shy of the end of their session.  
  
Then she turns to look at him, _really_ look at him and he looks … ruined. His throat bobs on a heavy swallow, like he’s trying to formulate a sentence but isn’t quite piecing it together. His eyes bore into hers with both fierce determination and … fear? What is he afraid of?  
  
“Rey…”  
  
His voice is hoarse, his words barely croaked out, he looks pained.  
  
But his phone starts vibrating in his pocket, against her inner thigh. _Insistently_. He tries to ignore it and succeeds, the phone vibrating itself into silence while Ben is still looking at her on the brink of formulating whatever sentence is torturing him. The phone begins another series of vibrations, then her desk phone begins ringing in tandem.  
  
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.  
  
She peels herself off him, waddling over to her desk on wobbly legs, to answer. It’s the engineers, they’re looking for him. Saw he’d be with her in his schedule. He takes off his suit jacket to drape in front and lets himself out wordlessly, leaving a gaping void in his place.  
  
Next week is her and Finn’s last week here and she’s not sure if she can handle his intensity anymore. It’ll hurt too much. The things she feels, regardless of whether they’re justified, are mottling the situation beyond anything she’s capable of handling. Her emotions have definitely gotten the best of her. She _wants_ him. More of him and she’s not sure if she has the strength to see him next week knowing it’ll be the end.

Or … she can try one more time…

  
  


[X]

  
  


“Rey I’m in love with you.”  
  
Why can he say it to the elevator door but not to her? It’s not like it’s a lie. It may have started as an innocent infatuation shrouded by a cloud of blinding lust but every time she came apart on his tongue he fell for her a little more. Every pretty moan and slurp of her arousal seeped into his system until she was the blood in his veins, the air in his lungs, the electric signals nudging his nerves. Every word she’d uttered to him between their passionate encounters surprised him, chipped away at his armour, allowed her to crawl a little deeper into his chest cavity. To wrap around his non-existent heart and nestle there, making herself at home.  
  
It was about the fourth week after they’d started that he accepted the fact that he was hopelessly in love with her. That the more time he spent between the gates of heaven, the more he never wanted to leave.  
  
At first he raged against the intimacy, he’d convinced himself he’d just become more ravenous for her and threw himself into coaxing her to come _again_ and _again_. He hadn’t realized it then, but now he knows that in his attempts to ruin her for anyone else, he’d well and truly ruined himself. That her every pretty orgasm did nothing but drown him further, until he came to the conclusion that he didn’t _want_ to come up for air. Adding a third to the mix all but sealed his fate.  
  
He’d convinced his mother therapy was going so well, he requested a chaise. His reasons veiled, of course. She’d obliged, probably because it was the first time he’d talked to her in months. The chaise gave him a brand new perspective. One where Rey was, effectively, on a pedestal. High above him where she belonged. He’d started bringing spare slacks to the office once they’d started that pretend sex that he wishes _so hard_ was the real deal. He’d love nothing more than to feel her come wrapped tightly around his cock.  
  
If it hadn’t been for those imbeciles 3 floors down he would have surely told her. Found an ounce of gall to just fucking admit his feelings. Right?  
  
 _No you gutless wretch, she’d for sure run at those words.  
  
_ Would she though? The way she was looking at him?   
  
Or would she analyze him? Laugh at him? Ridicule him for falling for someone who he barely knows on a personal level but whose every intimate inch he can pluck like a master harpist?  
  
He’s never been good at anything but fucking things up. For the first time in his adult life, Ben is _afraid_ of doing exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further Reference:
> 
> [Triangular Theory of Love](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triangular_theory_of_love)


	8. a promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s 6:02 PM and the floor is dead quiet save for his phone, currently set on speaker with various greetings being exchanged between the participants. His door is wide open to let the remnants of natural light flood through unimpeded. It would have probably been a nice spring evening if he wasn’t stuck hosting this stupid call that could definitely have been an email._
> 
> _The only saving grace is that tomorrow is Friday which means he’s got a long weekend ahead, three whole days to decompress and not think about work. What’s grating on him is that he won’t have his Friday appointment with Rey. The woman he can’t admit his feelings to. The woman he denied himself to yesterday when she’d clearly wanted him. It hadn’t been on purpose. He really did want her, but not there. Not on that sofa. She deserved more. The first time he’d have her he’d promised himself he’d take his time, in a bed where he could properly worship her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no plot here ... just 4000+ words of glorious smut.

Ben’s on a conference call with the Gold Coast team. He and Hux had drawn straws for who’d stay behind to initiate and host the call, and he’d drawn the short stick. Hux and their top engineers got to join the call from the comforts of their homes while he got to enjoy the dark and quiet confines of the office. It’s probably the universe’s way of making him do penance for being an asshole to everyone. He deserves it, he reckons. If anything, Rey’s taught him to see things from a different perspective and he can see how he deserves to be punished for the way he treats others.  
  
It’s 6:02 PM and the floor is dead quiet save for his phone, currently set on speaker with various greetings being exchanged between the participants. His door is wide open to let the remnants of natural light flood through unimpeded. It would have probably been a nice spring evening if he wasn’t stuck hosting this stupid call that could _definitely_ have been an email.  
  
The only saving grace is that tomorrow is Friday which means he’s got a long weekend ahead, three whole days to decompress and not think about work. What’s grating on him is that he won’t have his Friday appointment with Rey. The woman he can’t admit his feelings to. The woman he denied himself to yesterday when she’d clearly wanted him. It hadn’t been on purpose. He really _did_ want her, but not there. Not on that sofa. She deserved more. The first time he’d have her he’d promised himself he’d take his time, in a _bed_ where he could properly worship her.  
  
But no, he’d denied her. So now he won’t get to spend the weekend reminiscing how perfect her cunt is, how beautifully she falls apart on his tongue. How much he wants her in every possible way. He would have liked to at least taste her again before he went home. _Alone_.  
  
To make matters worse, next week is the last of the 3 month trial. Where at first there was too much time, now there’s hardly any. His time is running out and he still hasn’t found the gall to tell her how he feels. He makes due with the fleeting moments he gets, the time he spends between the gates of heaven drinking in the exquisite ambrosia of his one and only. In return he gives her what she wants, open dialogue and introspection. Every time he’s on the precipice of telling her how he feels their time is up or he loses his nerve. Then again, they’ve been dismantling his childhood and dredging up repressed emotions. It’s kind of hard to say ‘ _I’m falling in love with you_ ’ after you’ve discussed your teenage outbursts in dramatic detail.  
  
He quickly reminds himself they haven’t done any talking in weeks, so he’s really just being a fucking pussy about it. This call is probably him doing penance for _that_ too.  
  
“The team and I were just discussing QA over a barby. Do you think the engineers have worked out the last round 'a kinks?”  
  
“Mostly,” Ben answers while picking his cuticles nonchalantly, “the bugs they worked out are listed in the PDF report we sent prior to the call.”  
  
Hux begins speaking to the report he’d put together as memories of Rey from yesterday’s session invade his thoughts. The way she’d kissed him, the way her nipples pebbled under his touch. He wants to wrap his mouth around them. They felt perfect, the way he _knew_ they’d be. _Fuck_ he’s hard just thinking about her again. His hand trails down to his slacks, palming himself roughly over the fabric.  
  
No one’s here, what the fuck, right?  
  
Ben unzips his pants and releases his cock from their textile prison. Rey’s also taught him that release tends to calm him down. Shit, he’d always known that but it took meeting her to remind him. He rolls his chair closer to the desk so his lap is hidden _just in case_ the cleaning crew happens to be on duty. He’d been doing really well, HR even called to tell him a few claims had been redacted. He can’t afford adding indecency or public exposure to his list of infractions. Not when he’s actually cleaning up his act. Something he didn’t think he’d care about but it’s making coming into work bearable … nay, _enjoyable_. Then again, maybe that’s just Rey...  
  
Leaning back in his chair, while a bunch of idiots prattle about quality assurance measures, he begins stroking. Eyes closed he imagines her in his bed, writhing in his sheets, soaked with their sweat and combined spend, his mattress gloriously ruined. His head buried between her legs as he coaxes her to her third orgasm. The first two, he imagines, he’d sucked and fucked out of her. He bites his lower lip at the memory of the tangy sweet taste of her, remembering every contour of her face, her cunt.  
  
“Will we be implementing 2-factor authentication?”  
  
“That’s in the works,” Hux responds, “Ben can you confirm?”  
  
His eyes open and snap to the phone. Fucking _idiots_. Hux _knows_ the details of this, why does he insist on hailing him when he’s busy fantasizing?   
  
“Yes we are. Originally it was a wishlist item. But in this day and age, security is paramount so we’ve pushed it to the top of the implementation list. The engineers should have it ready for testing early next month. They can tell you more about the status of that.” The engineers take their cue from Ben and start spewing off technical details, the conversation drifting off again without him. He releases a huff of air through his nose and returns his focus on stroking himself and fantasizing about Rey writhing in his sheets.  
  
In the corner of his eye he sees a flitter of movement in the hallway, when his vision follows the shadow to his open door he realizes his prayers have been answered. There’s his Rey, standing in the doorway of his office, wrapped up in her trench coat gripping a pile of papers to her chest. She looks nervous, anxious even, but he can’t help the way he responds to her presence. He can’t help a sanguine smile from spreading across his face at the mere sight of her.  
  
She smiles right back at him tightly, taking a step forward then looking at the phone. Her smile falls and she looks down. Chest rising on a shaky inhale. He’s about to just hang the fuck up, fuck the call, fuck everyone but _her_. But she straightens out the pile of papers, clearing her throat quietly before turning the sheets over. Written in her therapist scrawl in black sharpie are the words ‘ _I’m going home. Have a great long weekend’_.  
  
This time it’s his smile that falls into a frown. But she’s not leaving, she’s slowly shutting the door behind her, a mischievous glint in her eye. He hears the door shut and the lock click in place. With a shaky hand she lifts up the first sheet of paper by the corner, letting it flutter to the floor to reveal a second message.  
  
‘ _Unless…_ ’  
  
He raises an eyebrow, hand still wrapped around his cock he gives an experimental pump and fuck if it doesn’t feel fantastic with her right there.  
  
She drops the sheet of paper to the floor and begins pulling the tie of her trench loose, revealing a peek of what’s underneath. Ben’s breath catches in his throat and he balls the hand that’s currently not wrapped around himself into a fist, stuffing it in his mouth to muffle a groan.  
  
There, beneath her unassuming black trench coat, that perfect little body is wrapped in the sheerest of black lace. A sheer lace bralette giving him his first peek at her perfect dusky pink nipples, the tiniest of lace panties, and black lace capped thigh high stockings. She’s a fucking gift, sent by whatever personal deity has deigned him worthy, to unwrap.  
  
“Mmpf,” he groans biting into his fist, eyelids drooping as he drinks her in.   
  
She smiles playfully and lets the trench roll over her shoulders to the floor, giving him an unfettered view of her glorious getup (or lack thereof). In all their covert trysts, this is the barest he’s ever seen her and it snaps something inside of him. The need to claim her, keep her, see and kiss every inch of her. It’s a wild animal he’s kept caged within him, clawing out erratically. He rolls his chair back to reveal his straining erection and pumps it slowly for her.  
  
The tip of her tongue flicks out to glide over her lower lip, eyes wide with lust and he all but comes just from her reaction. It’s wrong, he knows he should be focusing on the call, he’s on the job for fucks sake. Eating her out had never really seemed like a conduct issue, but somehow baring himself to her like this carried the erotic undertone of taboo. She points at herself and mouths, ‘ _for me_?’  
  
He nods again in response tugging his cock roughly but is rudely interrupted by the conversation droning on.  
  
“Ben? The beta numbers?”  
  
 _Fuck_.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Take us through the beta numbers,” Hux repeats himself on the line.  
  
“Right,” he releases his grip on himself and turns to pick up the report on his desk with both hands, “if you flip to page 10,” he’s ruffling through the pages, “you’ll find the results from our beta testers. They’ve reported 85 instances of crashing, 9 instances of incomplete code, and 27 of poor UX. The crashing is in Aus’ field so you guys’ll be able to report better on that, but we’re working on the incomplete code and UX. You can see further detail on pages 11 and onward.”  
  
The conversation picks back up on the call and he looks to the door only to find Rey is no longer standing there. No, _she’s kneeling between his fucking legs_ looking at him with those perfect eyes and that perfect mouth all pleading. She’s going to ruin him with that look. Wait, no, she’d ruined him long ago.  
  
His cock twitches at her proximity while she stares enthralled, her hands tracing up his inner thighs inching forward. Having her this close to him, this close to his exposed member draws a grunt from him, one he tries to stifle and ends up sounding like a strangled gurgle in his chest. She grasps him with her nimble fingers tracing her bottom lip with her perfect little tongue and he can do nothing but stare at the way her small fist can’t quite encompass his girth. The way her fingers feel hot and ready around him. When their eyes meet she gives an experimental pump and he groans loudly.  
  
“What’s that Ben?” someone asks on the phone.  
  
 _Shit_.  
  
“Nothing, I uh … forgot to print an extra copy.”  
  
She snickers quietly between his legs and he raises his eyebrow at her, the wicked minx. Before he has a chance to wrestle her off him and onto his desk where he’s now planning on devouring her like she’s his last meal, she’s wrapped her lips around his head, swirling her tongue slowly. Ben’s hand automatically shoots up to fist her hair at the jolt of bliss she elicits. His abdominals flexing at the wave of pleasure from being in her hot mouth, warring between pulling her off and pushing her further down. His body settles for an odd abdominal pull away and a hip thrust forward.  
  
He’s biting his lip hard, imprinting teeth to stifle the pleasured sounds threatening to rip out of his throat. With a shaky hand he reaches for the mute button on the speaker, _trying_ to pull her head back and off him, before addressing her.  
  
“Rey, what are you … _fuck_ that feels good,” his hips cant towards her unbidden, pushing him further into her mouth, “ _aah_ … what are you doing?”  
  
She hollows her cheeks creating a vacuum of suction around his head drawing a whimper from his throat. Her tongue laps once, twice, thrice over the slit of his head before releasing him with a lewd pop. She’s collecting the saliva slicked there to smear down his shaft, lubricating him and giving him sweet friction he can’t help but roll his hips into.  
  
“I needed to _relax_ ,” she smiles up at him with a devilish grin.  
  
“Let me eat you out, _please_ ,” he half moans half begs as her mouth seals around him again. Except this time she starts lowering her head over his cock, pushing him into her heated mouth until he can feel the back of her throat. She moans and the vibration makes his head fall back with a strangled groan. She bobs there a few times, jolting him each time before she pulls off him, going back to pumping her fist around him. Except this time she’s paying extra attention to the sensitive spot she found in record time just under the flare of his head.  
  
“No. You do that when _you_ need to relax. Now it’s my turn,” she murmurs seductively, “ _Please?_ ”  
  
She wants him, she fucking _wants_ him and he’s preening in light of the revelation.  
  
“Fuck sweetheart, you have no idea...”  
  
He can’t finish that sentence because he’s being hailed on that _fucking_ call again. These useless fucking...  
  
“Ben, have the engineers used the software themselves?”  
  
Her eyes are boring into his and she nudges her head towards the phone. ‘ _Answer them’_ they say. And he knows exactly what she’s trying to tell him but he’s not really sure he can handle it.  
  
He swallows heavily as he reaches for the mute button just as she seals her mouth over his throbbing cock again. He’s pretty sure he’s going to lose his fucking mind. It feels as though she’s planning on sucking his soul clean through the tip of his dick. It also feels like this little devil parading around as an angel wants to obliterate his career.  
  
“Yes. The reason we had … _mmh_ … betas was because en- engineers think differently than th- the end user. They won’t see inherent is- issues with usability … _aah_ …”  
  
Her assault on his cock has started in earnest. She’s employing a mixture of pumping her tight fist, the suction of her mouth and soft lapping of her tongue to push him closer and closer to climax. The soft slurping sounds of her ministrations filling the room but don’t seem to carry through the line on the conference call, the participants woefully unaware that he’s being sucked into another dimension. Her other hand is stroking his inner thigh languidly like she hasn’t all but declared war on his genitals.   
  
Ben can’t help the way his hand cups the back of her head tenderly, scratching at her scalp the way she does his when he’s pleasuring her. Can’t help watch his length appear and disappear into that sinful mouth as she works him with heady wonder. The visual makes him twitch and he feels her gag quietly around the movement, and fuck if _that_ doesn’t feel fantastic.  
  
“What Ben’s saying is that engineers don’t see the world like we do, in color. They see things in code which is great for debugging and writing, not so great for UX. They look for a problem to fix, they look for tight code but they already know the nature of the program so they don’t see it the way John Smith with 3 kids and a dog does,” Hux adds.  
  
“Th-that’s right … _nngh_ ,” he tries to sound present but fails miserably because the tip of her tongue traces the ridge of his head with toe curling precision sending a shockwave of pleasure into his balls.  
  
The conversation continues and he hits the mute button with shaky fingers, this time bringing his spare hand to her jaw running his thumb over her hollowed cheek. Running it over to her mouth to trace her lower lip that’s stretched to its limit around him, drawing a line of spittle down her chin.  
  
“I’m going to splay you over that desk when we’re done and … _fuck_ … and bury my face in that pussy. You’re gonna … _oh God … so good_ … gonna come on my tongue until you can’t ... _fuck_ _Rey_ … walk away from me.”  
  
She moans in response, nodding with his dick in her mouth and looking up at him with those big eyes of hers and fuck if that doesn’t make his hips jerk forward burying his length down her throat again. He’s barely grated out the words through clenched teeth when his hips buck forward again and the most glorious orgasm hits him with the force of a lightning bolt. Wave after wave of his cum spurts into her mouth and she swallows eagerly, massaging his inner thigh, moaning with each swallow and milking him into her waiting mouth with her closed fist as he chants her name like a fucking prayer.  
  
When the waves have subsided and the clouds of his orgasmic reverie clear he releases his grip in her hair, gripping her jaw and bending forward to bring her up into a deep kiss. She still tastes salty and slightly bitter, like him, but he couldn’t give a single fuck because right now ... right now he’s ravenous and there’s only one thing that can quell that hunger.  
  
He grasps her by the waist roughly, lifting her up and leaning her back. Laying her across his desk and spreading her legs, like he’s at an all you can eat buffet and he’s just about done tying a bib around his neck, ready to devour the bounty spread before him. He looks at her through hooded eyes, a wicked smile on his face, “You’re gonna scream my name, Rey.”   
  
The promise dripping from his mouth as he hooks his index finger into her panties to pull them aside. He gives an experimental flick with his thumb and she’s fucking soaked and he can’t help groan in pleasure. She’s _always_ soaked for him.

An idea crosses his mind. His thumb hones in on her clit and begins a punishing rhythm of flicks, drawing a string of moans from her. He lifts his other hand up to his lips, “ _shhhh_ ” as he leans forward in his seat.  
  
He presses the mute button to address the call, “Gentlemen, it’s late here so if you don’t mind, I’ll be putting myself on mute to have a quick dinner.”  
  
“S’ all right mate.”  
  
“You brought dinner?” Hux’s surprised voice asks, talking over the Australian manager.  
  
“A man’s gotta eat,” his eyes roam over the prone figure on his desk, biting his lip lustily. She’s panting open mouthed, brows furrowed in effort to contain the soft mewling sounds he _knows_ she’s about to make.  
  
“Right, we’ll try to not disturb you. Just chime in when yer done.”  
  
Ben’s hand slowly moves to press the mute button, her eyes following his hand, begging him to hurry up so she can relieve the moans trapped in her chest.  
  
 _Click_.  
  
“ _Fuck_ Ben!”  
  
He doesn’t give her a chance to say more. In an instant he’s buried his face between her thighs lapping up the juices that are freely flowing over his desk now. The scrap of lace parading as panties soaked, ruined, pushed to the side in haste. She’s moaning and writhing, her hips canting towards him in search of friction. Wet noises fill the room as he gorges on her. Fingers find purchase in his hair and the scrape of her nails on his scalp sends a shock to his cock, hardening him again instantly. The shortest refractory period he’s ever had in his life. The power this woman has over him, he thinks as he sucks at her clit roughly, if _only_ she knew.  
  
Then she pushes his face away with her palm, hard enough to disconnect and he can’t help but stare. Stare at her in confusion, watching her pant, taking in the way her nipples have peaked in the flimsy bralette, the way her skin has blushed from arousal. _Why_ is she stopping? She’s never denied him the pleasure of rendering her boneless.  
  
“Ben…” she’s tugging his hair, pulling him up towards her. The chair clatters back as he stands up, leaning over her, “I need you…”  
  
She wants him close and it splinters something inside him. The closeness he craves is being requested. Who is he to deny her? He settles for reaching his hand between her legs to start thumbing at her while he hovers over her prone body, drinking in the way she responds to his every touch. Her heaving chest draws his attention and he can’t help the way he dips down to suck a hardened nipple through the sheer fabric, biting down gently. Cashing in on a fantasy he’s long been suppressing. That sends her into a fit of moans, writhing under his ministrations. Her tits are perfect, utterly fucking _perfect,_ like he knew they’d be.  
  
“ _Fuck_ … Ben … please,” her back arches off the desk as he latches onto her other nipple, “ _please_ fuck me.”  
  
Did he just hear that right? He pulls his head back to meet her eyes. She’s breathless, drunk on the pleasure he’s bestowing on her immaculate form but there’s need in her eyes. It’s more intimate than he could have ever imagined, considering the sinful things they’ve done.  
  
“N-no,” he stutters, lowering his face against her collarbone, slowing his hand movements below in an effort to collect his own thoughts. As if slowing his hand will slow the racing of his mind. He feels her body deflate. He’d done this to her yesterday and felt her body grow rigid with disappointment then too.  
  
“No,” he tries again latching onto his very favourite spot on her neck, “when I fuck you, I promise it’ll be in a bed and I’m taking my time. The way you deserve.”  
  
He hears her inhale sharply, feels her legs spread further for him. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer while she arches her back and her neck giving him unfettered access to his favourite spot just below her ear.  
  
He _wants_ to be a good guy. _Wants_ to worship her the way she deserves. But he also _wants_ to be inside her more than he cares to breathe right now.   
  
Two of his fingers slide into her silky heat and he begins a steady pumping rhythm while he cradles himself against her clit, thrusting against her for purchase. He uses his thumb to loop around his girth, holding him in place, for added pressure. A compromise like a soothing balm for the need they both need to quench right now.  
  
She quivers beneath him. _Acceptance_.  
  
“Yes, Ben … _oh God_ … fuck!”  
  
That’s all she needed because within a dozen thrusts he feels her fall apart, feels her orgasm wash over her. He feels it the way her breath comes out in tight bursts, the way she starts to flutter around his fingers, the way her thighs jerk and the way her nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt. He thrusts against her, working her through her orgasm as his second builds up. Finding her lips, he kisses her deeply, ruts against her with abandon. Then he too joins her, groaning into her mouth as his second orgasm paints her taut stomach.  
  
They stay there, wrapped around each other across his desk. Breaths coming in deeper, slower as they cool down from their frenzied movements. He’s resting his forehead in the crook of her neck inhaling her sweet perfume mingled with sweat and the heady aroma of their fluids.  
  
This is where he wants to die. There are no words more perfect to close the book of his life on than those hanging in the air between them right here, right now. She’s everything he could ever need. The only thing to complete him so wholly. When he’s with her, he wants for nothing. She makes him _happy_. A prospect that he never believed would be in the realm of possibilities for the likes of him. Happiness wasn’t something he deserved and yet it found him.

Then it hits him. He has to tell her.  
  
“Rey?”  
  
A beat. She’s still boneless and dazed.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Come home with me. Stay. Stay the night. Stay the weekend,” _forever_ , “just … just _stay._ ”  
  
He can feel her heart skip a beat, can feel her smile. He can feel her chin brush against the top of his head in a nod.  
  
It’s not what he needed to say but, this. This is only the beginning. It’s a promise.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact - this is the second chapter I wrote to this story. And I just checked the deets ... turns out I've been holding out on posting this one for just over a month :/


	9. a result

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rey wasn’t sure what she’d expected. For starters, she was wholly prepared for him to send her off, to reject her advance. She knew he would be on a call. His schedule was free for consultation to anyone with a company email, so when she saw it the night before a plan began to formulate._
> 
> _Her plan was sensible, really. She’d wear something irresistible under her office garb, then when he was on the call she’d shed her outer layer, pay him a visit and feign leaving. Since he was on a call he couldn’t reject her too harshly. It would be easy to sneak away and mend the pieces of her heart she was sure he was about to shatter. So she’d scribbled 2 messages on scrap paper with shaky hands and braced herself for the final nail in the coffin. Except … it never came._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... Ben's anger management is going well...

She’d stayed. In his office for the duration of the call, that is. He’d hoisted her limp body, positioning her astride his own in the chair. She’d nuzzled into his neck and dozed sleepily, his suit jacket enveloping her back like a blanket, her chest pressed into his while he finished the call. Not that there was much left to it.  
  
He’d kissed her shoulder, her temple, her neck, any available part of her the whole time, never once releasing his hold around her. Not even to adjust himself when his legs started falling asleep. Not even when their dried spend began to crust and pull on their exposed skin.  
  
They only separated when the call was over and it was time to go and even then, just barely. He’d reached out to take her hand and held it while he packed his things. Then held her hand walking to her office. Held it as she grabbed her things. Held it to the elevator, _in_ the elevator. In the car park. Sure it was inconvenient having to do things with one hand when you’ve got a second that’s perfectly capable, but he desperately needed her hand like a tether that reminded him this _was_ real. Her hand was like the anchor he hadn’t even known he’d needed.  
  
He’d convinced her to leave the car there. Promised he’d personally chauffeur her wherever she wanted to go, including back to her car if she wanted to leave. She sleepily conceded and their hands unclasped only briefly enough for him to deposit her into the passenger seat. Then they’d interlaced their fingers again for the entirety of the drive home.  
  
Ben was sure that at any minute she’d wake up from her trance, shake her head and come to her senses. Laugh at him and tell him to fuck off. Tell him it was a mistake, that she’d whispered those words he’d longed to hear in the heat of the moment. That it hadn’t meant anything. But she didn’t. When he’d squeeze her hand she’d squeeze back. Her fingers grasped his with matching pressure, grasping and stroking in returned affection. Holding her hand was, in short, blissful.  
  
He’d asked her if she was hungry and when she nodded he placed a delivery order for some pasta while idling at a red light. When they’d pulled into his garage and he’d carried her bridal style into the house, she’d shyly asked for a tour. So he obliged and carried her through his modest bungalow pointing out each room while she giggled tucked snugly against him, forehead pressed into his neck.   
  
When they’d reached his bedroom, he deposited her on the bed, checked the food app and told her dinner would arrive in 20 minutes. He’d begun loosening his tie and unbuttoning his dress shirt, still crusted with their dried spend from where he'd held her against him. Her eyes had grown wide when he stood before her shirtless and he all but combusted from the sheer satisfaction of pleasing her. She liked the view. _Good_.  
  
He’d leaned in and kissed her again, pawing at the belt of her trench to free her from its confines. She’d returned his kisses hungrily all the while, grabbing at his hair, running her deft fingers over his shoulders and chest. He’d wanted to fuck her right there. He was ready to go for a third time in less than an hour like he was a hormonal teenager again.  
  
Instead, he asked her if she’d like to shower. Not because he didn’t want her, no. Ben just wanted to make sure she was comfortable. He wanted to _take care_ of her. She considered the question as the lust seeped from her hooded eyes, then nodded while a blush creeped up her chest. He’d kissed her forehead then, peeled off her jacket, and carried her into the bathroom. He’d turned the shower knobs setting the temperature just right and helped her undress, chastely kissing every inch he could.  
  
He didn’t join her. If he had, he would never have had a chance to find her a t-shirt and boxer briefs to wear. He would have never been able to answer the door for their food. No. He would have ended up fucking her against the tiles while the water ran cold and their skin pruned from exposure. Though he did file that option away for later, if she stayed long enough that is. Because he’s still not sure this is real. Still not sure what she sees in him or why she hasn’t left him yet. All he knows is that he’ll do his best not to fuck up a single second he gets with her.  
  
So he peels himself away from her instead, hopping into the guest bathroom’s small shower stall, rinsing his body off quickly, then donning sweats and a soft tee. He answered the door in time and sets up the bounty on his coffee table. Sure, they could eat in the dining room or kitchen, but he wanted to hold her, feel her body next to his as much as possible. Chairs were too … _separate_. The couch was perfect.  
  
He hadn’t said what he needed to say. But he _was_ gifted the opportunity to show her how much she meant to him. To show her he can be more than an office fling. _Maybe_ , just maybe he can convince her he’s worth a try...

  
  


[X]

  
  


Rey wasn’t sure what she’d expected. For starters, she was wholly prepared for him to send her off. To reject her advance. She knew he would be on a call. His schedule was free for consultation to anyone with a company email, so when she saw it the night before a plan began to formulate.  
  
Her plan was sensible, really. She’d wear something irresistible under her office garb, then when he was on the call she’d shed her outer layer, pay him a visit and feign leaving. Since he was on a call he couldn’t reject her too harshly. It would be easy to sneak away and mend the pieces of her heart she was sure he was about to shatter. So she’d scribbled 2 messages on scrap paper with shaky hands and braced herself for the final nail in the coffin. Except … it never came.  
  
He’d _let_ her touch him. He’d denied her the ultimate intimacy but then he’d said he wanted to do it right, the way she _deserved_ and that had made her heart flutter. Then he’d asked her to stay and spend the night, the weekend even and _that_ had made her heart flip and flop in her chest uncontrollably. She’s still not really sure what to make of it but the universe has gifted her more time with the brute she can’t get out of her system. She’d take it. Any fleeting moment of it.  
  
So in light of his offer she’d agreed in a lusty haze to go home with him. Though, if she were to admit it to herself, she would have said yes in any state she found herself in.

The man that left the office with her was day and night from the Ben that usually sat across from her in sessions. It was as if that small window she got to peek through at the end of their orgasmically laced sessions had been blown wide open. While before she’d get fleeting glimpses of his gentler side, she was now experiencing the full brunt of it. He liked holding her hand, _a lot_.  
  
She was convinced it was just him making sure she didn’t flee, keeping her tethered to him so he could get her into bed where he’d fuck her into an alternate dimension. That his actions were self-serving.  
  
Except he’d interlaced their fingers, run his thumb soothingly over her hand, ordered them food. When she thought they’d for sure consummate on his bed, he’d offered her a shower instead. When she thought he’d take her in the shower, he’d deposited her inside and let her get cleaned up alone. When she’d made it out, he’d left her a soft tee and boxer briefs. None matching the actions of a man who just wants to fuck. No, these actions were too tender, too caring.  
  
She resigns to not understanding the enigma that is Ben Solo yet again, towelling herself off and putting on only the tee. There was no need for underwear, because the plan was to give him easy access, and because the shirt basically acted as a dress falling to just above her knees anyway. That’s how she makes her way to the living room, only to be greeted by a sight that confirms her intuition.  
  
There’s Ben, dressed in gloriously casual attire, sprawled across the sofa with a bounty of takeout containers strewn across the coffee table. Rey takes a minute to drink him in before revealing herself. The way his raven hair falls to frame his face and brush his shoulders, the way his eyes seem to dart across the coffee table as if calculating the portions, the way he looks peaceful for once. He doesn’t look like the office menace she met all those months ago. He looks … nervous? She’s suddenly not hungry anymore, a different kind of need manifesting in her gut.  
  
He sits up when he sees her, eyes wide, throat bobbing on a swallow. For all the things this man has said and done, for all the priggish actions and words he’s flung at her and others, speechless is a state she’ll never be able to associate with him. It builds something inside her, an affection she’s afraid to put into words. It also makes her bold.   
  
Bold enough to slowly drift to him. Bold enough to straddle him on his sofa while he stares at her in awe. Bold enough to initiate, for the first time, a kiss.   
  
It’s slow. It’s gentle, tentative even but he responds in stride, his arms coming up to circle her waist tenderly as he harmonizes with her. There’s no urgency to the kiss, they have all the time in the world. It’s intimate, if she were to describe it in one word, like the world and time has melted away leaving only the two of them.  
  
He pulls back just a smidge, not enough for their eyes to meet, barely enough to not feel the graze of his lips as they move. Only to whisper the most pragmatic words she doesn’t expect, “you’re not hungry?”  
  
She shakes her head and kisses him again, doubling her efforts to show him what he does to her. Further emboldened, Rey widens her knees to make full contact and begins grinding down on him, giving him no reason to question her motives, only to realize he’s just as aroused as she is. They explore each other’s mouths contentedly, grinding against each other, never easing nor escalating. Like it’s their first time.  
  
Her hands travel to the hem of his t-shirt and begin travelling up, taking the garment with them. She’d wanted to get her hands on his chest again and was making due on fulfilling that want. He only relents, lifting his arms and breaking the kiss briefly enough for her to shuck him out of it, sealing his lips against hers the second he’s free.   
  
Her fingers travel across the expanse of his broad chest, hard and lean, his muscles twitching under her strokes. Enjoying the feel of the warmth radiating off his bare skin. As her fingers explore, his hands release her waist, falling to her thighs only to start travelling up, grasping her hips under the shirt, pulling her onto him with a little more gusto. An act so needy it draws a low moan from her. One he swallows hungrily as he sets a new pace to their rocking bodies.  
  
His hands continue travelling upwards, brushing the sensitive skin on her waist, her upper back, thumbs stroking under her breast then circling up to flick her nipples. Each of his strokes, each movement of his heated hands and fingers elicit soft mewls. Encouraging him to continue exploring. His palms to cup her small breasts entirely, pinching her nipples, rolling them between his fingers and sending shocks of pleasure straight to her core.  
  
They continue exploring each other’s bodies tacitly with unhurried strokes and brushes. His hands release her only to drop down to her waist where his shirt has pooled between their grinding bodies. He pinches the hem and begins pulling it up and up baring her to him completely. She lets him peel it off her, now utterly naked on his lap, chest heaving under his heated gaze.  
  
Their eyes meet and he glances between her chest and eyes, asking for permission like he doesn’t already know every private inch of her. Like he doesn’t understand that she’d let him do _anything_ to her. She nods her approval and he immediately hunches down to latch his lips around one nipple groaning in contentment while her head falls back on a gasp. Sucking and flicking with his capable tongue, occasionally nipping. The whole while gripping her hip and rocking her against the length of him in his sweatpants.   
  
Her hands trail down to trace the waistband of his sweats, now officially the bane of her existence. Tracing the lines of his abdominal vee before sliding below the elastic to push them further down. He responds by shifting his hips forward, allowing her to pull them down enough to expose his thick length, hard and ready for her yet again. He does her one better, still latched onto her nipple, he shifts a little more, never moving her off his lap to slip his sweats off with one hand, sliding them down his powerful thighs, below his knees, finally pooling around his ankles.  
  
It’s new, this complete nakedness between them. It’s new and it’s beautiful and when he repositions her to slide between her sopping folds she thinks she might come again just from this. Utterly abandoned in his lap and at his mercy. The feel of his smooth skin, the heat of his body, the building pleasure make her feel like warmed putty, ready for him to mold into whatever he desires.  
  
“Fuck, Rey, we can’t…” he’s resting his head against her sternum gripping her hips and grinding against her hard, “I don’t …”  
  
The sentence trails because he’s latched onto a nipple and is sucking hungrily, thrusting himself against her, grunting loudly. His cock catches at her entrance once, twice but he slides away each time. This doesn’t make sense. What is the point of promising he’d do it right? What was the point of asking her to spend the night if he isn’t going to make good on the energy between them?  
  
“I don’t have any,” his breathing stutters as he grinds her down against his hard length, “...condoms. No condoms. I checked. _Fuck_ this feels so good Rey. I wanna be inside you so bad.”  
  
He’s latched onto the opposite nipple, thrusting with abandon against her like he had earlier on his desk. Like if he does this hard enough it’ll somehow negate the problem he’s encountered. A silly problem, she thinks to herself suppressing a smile.  
  
“It’s okay,” she murmurs into his hair, “I’m on the pill and I’m clean if you are.”  
  
He stops. Completely. Frozen in place as though with her words she’d stopped time. His head comes up and the look he gives her shatters her to pieces. It’s open, awestruck, like she’d given him the gift of life.  
  
And without any warning, without fanfare or preamble, with only the slightest of imperceptible nods, he’s pulling her down to kiss her deeply. The large hand resting on her hip shaking with anticipation as he guides her up to catch his head at her entrance. There’s no slow build up, they’ve been building to this for the past half hour, for weeks actually.  
  
He pushes in slowly, giving her time to adjust to every inch he’s feeding her. She’d always known he was big. Fuck she’d known when she first saw him. Men his size are proportional. She’d known then, confirmed the few times he’d rut against her, confirmed it earlier today when he’d stretched her mouth to its limit. But feeling his girth stretch her so wholly is nothing short of a divine experience. The way he fills her as he inches further and further until there’s nowhere left to go, until she’s speared onto his lap, skin meeting skin when he’s fully buried.  
  
She gives an experimental hip roll which rips an undignified groan out of her, or him, she’s not sure they’re both moaning loudly into each other's mouths. Because, well, he’s so _fucking_ big and it feels so _fucking_ good.   
  
Both his hands reach to knead the soft flesh of her ass while he cants his hips in a small thrust. He’s experimenting right back. At that they both shudder in unison. Her head tips back at the wave of pleasure his thrust elicits and he latches onto his favourite spot on her neck, grinding her hips against him.  
  
He begins setting a rhythm of shallow thrusts, sucking bruises into her neck, flooding her senses with the experience of him.   
  
“Fuck … Rey, this ...” his tongue traces the expanse of her collarbone before settling into kissing the hollow of her throat, “... feels so much better than I imagined.”  
  
His thrusts grow deeper, needier and she begins working him in return, meeting him thrust for thrust.  
  
“You … imagined … this?” It shouldn’t surprise her. She’d been getting off at the idea of him steadily since they’d met. He’d rendered her boneless with his mouth and hands more times than she can count, and yet this confession feels like a victory. Because she’s not alone. No, he imagined her the way she’d imagined him. It goes _both_ ways.  
  
“God yes,” he grunts on a deliciously hard thrust that shakes her whole body.  
  
“So tight,” he rasps against her throat, bending lower to flick his tongue around a nipple before fastening his lips around it. Their rhythm is steady but slow, enjoying each stroke, each drag of him inside her. “You feel so good wrapped around my cock,” his tongue traces a trail of spittle between her breasts, taking turns lavishing each nipple with equal attention.  
  
One of his hands shifts lower on her hip, putting his thumb in reach of her throbbing clit and he begins adding gentle strokes there too. He’s literally everywhere. Inside her, coaxing her nerves with an assault on her nipples, her clit. It’s incredible the way she feels herself building under his attention. Her chest is wet, sloppy from his tongue dragging across it. His lap a frictionless mess from her arousal. Her cunt full of everything he has to give her.  
  
Rey’s hands drift from his shoulders into his hair for purchase, pulling his head back for their eyes to lock. There’s nothing guarded about the eyes that meet her, his emotions blown wide open for her to see. It floods her gut with a blooming warmth, a stark contrast to the rhythmic thrusts further below. She doesn’t know what possesses her but she leans down to kiss him. With all that she is and all that she has.  
  
Their pace is constant. A slow but effective bump and slide that hits places deep within her. This isn’t fucking, this is lovemaking. The revelation makes her moan and he swallows it eagerly, doubling his efforts on her clit, his thrusts stuttering for a single heartbeat.  
  
“Come…” he murmurs against her lips, “I’m gonna come.”  
  
He presses just a little harder against her bundle of nerves, “come with me, Rey,” he thrusts just a little harder.  
  
“Come on my cock.”  
  
And she does. As if her body responds to his every whim, her orgasm floods her senses and she shatters for him on command, clamping around his length like a vice. His thrusts falter, become more erratic as he works her through the orgasm. He moans a string of expletives sprinkled with a healthy side of her name against her lips before he buries himself with one hard thrust into her and floods her with his own release.

  
  


[X]

  
  


Fucking her is a divine experience. No, scratch that, _making love_ to her. Because that’s what that was. There was absolutely nothing feral about it.  
  
After their first time he’d wrapped them up in throw blankets, nestling her between his legs as they ate cold pasta. Feeding each other morsels more than feeding themselves. He’d peppered her temple, cheek and the curvature of her neck with kisses while she flipped through the channels on TV, looking for something to put on. When she’d settled for reruns of the Sopranos (because that’s _not_ cliche for a therapist) he ate her out for dessert. Then she’d offered to help him clean up the takeout boxes, which had led to him having her against his kitchen counter. She’d held onto the bevelled edge tightly while he watched the soft flesh of her ass bounce with each thrust, tracing the nubs of her spinal column with his thumb.  
  
After that he’d carried her back to the sofa where they’d dozed staring at the TV peacefully until she’d fallen asleep. He’d carried her to bed only to feel an urgent need to bury his face between her legs again. So he did, waking her up in the process. He’d had her again in bed, watching her perfect tits bounce with each thrust, her hair splayed across his pillowcase like she’d always belonged there, while they made a mess of his sheets. He’d spooned her to sleep that night, falling asleep in record time content as can be.  
  
He’d woken up Friday morning with her pretty little mouth wrapped around his cock and she’d sucked him off until he babbled an incoherent strings of expletives and came down her throat with her name on his lips. She’d snuggled into his side after, drawing lazy circles on his chest until they dozed some more.   
  
When he’d hopped into the shower a little later, she’d joined him so he’d had her in there too. Pressing her soft body against the tiles while holding her close, balancing her on his forearms as he buried his cock into her tight heat.   
  
He’d made her pancakes after and they’d eaten about half before the maple syrup became the gateway to fucking her on his kitchen table and sucking the syrup off her perfect tits.  
  
Then she’d said she needed to go home because she needed clothes. So he’d obliged and drove her but refused to leave, which led to them fucking in _her_ bed with a weekender bag and clothes rumpling under their sweaty bodies.   
  
He wondered where all this virility came from. In less than 24 hours he’d had her 7 times, come 9 times. Hell, he’d brought her to orgasm what? 10 times? Where either of them are finding the reserves is beyond him, all he knows is that he’s insatiable for her.   
  
After that he’d helped her pack her bag in earnest. He’d suggested she throw in something to wear to work on Monday. She’d beamed at him and threw in his favourite shift dress, the mustard coloured one that hung loosely and gave him easy access. He’d taken her back to his house, then, and they’d held a BBC Earth marathon. Which is to say, he’d spent about 2 episodes with his head between her legs edging her and another episodes with his cock buried deep in her cunt, rocking into her slowly, enjoying the heat of each other’s sweaty bodies.  
  
They’d spent the entirety of Friday in various states of undress and orgasmic bliss.  
  
On Saturday morning he woke up with his cock in her mouth again. A morning ritual he could _definitely_ get used to. He’d coaxed her to turn around, to straddle his face and they sucked and licked each other into oblivion.  
  
They made breakfast together, he wearing only sweatpants and she in his t-shirt. He’d told her he had a surprise for her, to grab a few clothes for overnight and then he’d driven them to a winery a few hours outside town. He’d had _that_ stroke of genius the day before during one of her post-orgasm cat naps. He’d booked the hotel on a whim and they spent the day strolling through rows of grape vines, tasting wines, talking and eyeing each other hungrily until it was acceptable to retreat back to the hotel room to fuck each other silly.  
  
On Sunday he’d realized he didn’t have her number so he gave her his phone to input it. When he looked later he added the sunshine emoji to her name and added her to his favourites. He didn’t have favourites. She was the only one.  
  
By Sunday evening after he’d let her win at Monopoly, Sorry! and Battleship, he realized he had spent the entire weekend immersed in a bubble of Rey, never actually saying what he needed to say.  
  
As they dozed on the now ruined sofa, naked and sated in the afterglow of another successful session, Alien Resurrection droning on in the background, he kissed her forehead and murmured, “I’m in love with you, Rey.”  
  
It came easily. Naturally. The way it _should_ be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft ... _so_ soft


	10. a new hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She’d made a lot of assumptions about him, come to think of it. She thought he’d take in the bedroom. It turned out he was more a giver. She thought he’d be rough. It turned out he was surprisingly gentle. She thought he’d be loud. Well ... he was actually. The more they had each other, the louder he got. He’d become increasingly vocal, murmuring endearments and filthy words that only heighten the experience._
> 
> _What had he said last night?_
> 
> _After he’d murmured “I’m in love with you, Rey,” she’d lifted her head up sleepily, not like she was paying attention to that aberration parading around as an Alien sequel, she wasn’t even sure she’d heard him right. But his face, his face, was so open, so honest._

She woke up Monday morning well before the sun rose. It was still dark outside, her favourite time of day. But the best part of this particular morning wasn’t the sliver of light on the horizon or the chirping of birds in the spring. It was the heavy weight around her waist, the warmth she’d wrapped herself around, the soft expanse of pectorals under her ear rising and falling. The heavy, rhythmic thumping of a heart. Ben turned out to be quite the snuggler, a far cry from the man she’d assumed he’d be.  
  
She’d made a _lot_ of assumptions about him, come to think of it. She thought he’d take in the bedroom. It turned out he was more a giver. She thought he’d be rough. It turned out he was surprisingly gentle. She thought he’d be loud. Well ... he _was_ actually. The more they had each other, the louder he got. He’d become increasingly vocal, murmuring endearments and filthy words that only heighten the experience.   
  
What had he said last night?  
  
After he’d murmured “I’m in love with you, Rey,” she’d lifted her head up sleepily, not like she was paying attention to that aberration parading around as an Alien sequel, she wasn’t even sure she’d heard him right. But his face, _his face_ , was so open, so honest.  
  
She must have blinked a few too many times because he’d started looking uncomfortable. That had confused her for only half a second before it all came crashing down. The weight of his words, her silence. This man, the one that’s terrible with words, had just flayed his soul out for her and all she did was stare. Necessity overtook her and she closed the gap between them, kissing him deeply. His hands had tightened around her back possessively and she pulled back enough to whisper it back against his lips. He’d hugged her so tightly then, it felt like she was going to be absorbed clean into his body. She’d requested he take her to bed so he carried her the way he had all weekend, kissing her all the way to the bedroom. The movie left to play itself out.  
  
He’d lowered their naked bodies onto his bed then started kissing his way down her body. Tongue trailing over every sensitive spot he’d discovered over the last 72 hours they’d spent studying each other's anatomies. He’d hoisted her legs over his shoulders and started lapping at her core languidly, eyes never leaving hers while he built her up.   
  
“I’m in love with these legs,” he’d murmured, sucking the same bruise into her inner thighs he’s been nurturing for weeks.  
  
“I’m in love with this pussy,” he’d murmured, sealing his mouth over her core, nipping and sucking. Groaning contentedly while his plush lips _did_ things against her sloppily.  
  
“I’m in love with this stomach,” he’d murmured when he’d come up to trail kisses up her body, his hand sweeping softly down her leg.  
  
“I’m in love with these tits,” he’d murmured as he rolled one nipple between the pad of his thumb and index finger, latching onto the other with his lips. His teeth scraping and pebbling it further in the heat of his mouth.  
  
“I’m in love with this neck,” he’d murmured as he nipped and kissed his way up the column of her neck, his hand releasing her breast and trailing up her sternum to cradle her jaw.  
  
“I’m in love with this mouth,” he’d murmured quietly before capturing her lips for a deep kiss, lazily gliding his hot length between her now soaked folds.  
  
“But most of all,” he’d murmured while his lips grazed a path across her cheekbone to lick the shell of her ear, his cock nudging at her entrance, “I’m in love with this,” his hand trailed down from her neck to rest above her pounding heart as he pushed in.  
  
“All of you, Rey,” he’d whispered into her ear as he set a slow rhythm. Every drag of his cock sending numbing sweeps of pleasure down her spine. “I’m in love with all of you.”  
  
Neither of them lasted long under the weight of his words and their admissions. He’d collapsed on top of her and that was the last thing she remembers. Falling asleep under the grounding weight of Ben Solo, her personal gravity blanket.  
  
The memory sends a shiver down her spine and she feels her arousal growing yet again. This man, if he _only_ knew the effect he has on her. The need to show him sparks something inside her, makes her extricate herself from his grip as gently as she can before scooting down to peel the blanket off his naked form.   
  
She settles between his legs, kneeling. Traces the curvature of his pectorals with her fingers, runs them down the expanse of abdominals, feeling his diaphragm expand and contract. Across the vee down below, down the treasure trail of finely dusted hair that leads to her favourite part of him. He’s already hard, warm and ready. She really shouldn’t be blamed for what she does next. What she’d done every morning here.   
  
She leans down and licks a hot stripe up the length of him, savouring the taste. Every ridge, every vein on his shaft, letting her tongue linger and flick under the flare of his head. He stirs and moans lowly in his sleep. Her tongue sweeps over his head as her fingers wrap around his shaft, pulling his length up to lower her head over him.  
  
He’s salty and a little bitter. There’s a bit of tang to him, the taste of herself having seeped into the thin, smooth skin of his cock. She moans quietly, turned on just from _this_ experience of him. He twitches in her mouth, she can hear his breathing pick up, see his stomach clench as she bobs her head up and down his length, taking him deeper and deeper each time. She can feel him harden further, he’s getting close.  
  
His hand comes up to bush a whisp of her hair behind her ear, palm open. He then splays his fingers wide to cradle the back of her head, thumb grazing the side of her cheek softly. Her eyes dart up to meet his bleary, freshly woken ones.  
  
“It’s you,” he mumbles sleepily.  
  
She pulls off him, strings of saliva drawn long and thin between her mouth and his head to sit up fully on her heels, turning to press a wet kiss into his palm. “It’s me,” she murmurs.  
  
“Fuck, Rey,” he groans fisting himself with his other hand, “you’re so wet.”  
  
 _She’s what?  
  
_ He juts his chin down between her legs and her eyes follow his bidding only to see a stringy thread of arousal dripping from her, making a wet patch on the sheets.  
  
“C’mere,” he pumps himself languidly while his hand scratches at her scalp tenderly, “come sit on my cock.”  
  
So she does. Their hands are everywhere. Kneading, touching, caressing. Soft wet sounds fill the room, intermingled with the quiet moans from their freshly woken throats. They don’t last long, then again, neither of them ever do. It’s like they’re teenagers again with each other. Like the act of fucking feels _so_ good neither can take it for too long.  
  
They doze tangled in each other until her alarm goes off. They doze after they turn it off and his starts going off from across the room on the dresser. Then they well and truly get up, ready to face a day at work. He drags her into the shower where he has her against the tiles murmuring endearments in her ear.  
  
They towel each other off then dress quietly, getting ready for work in tandem peacefully while sharing the space on the countertop and snatching kisses. He makes them breakfast. A quick egg scramble he tucks deftly into a tortilla wrap with spinach, alfalfa and hot sauce. Spicy food, it turns out, is a shared passion between them.  
  
He drives them to work, holds her hand again the whole time. He holds her hand in the car park, in the elevator, out of the elevator. He holds her hand to her office, depositing her inside with a kiss to the forehead and a promise to see her at lunch.   
  
People see. Of course they see. A few weeks of good behaviour doesn’t reset his coworkers natural reaction to take notice of his lumbering form, ready to duck. They see and stare dumbfounded. Baffled by the softness and intimacy of their clasped hands. But she couldn’t give a single fuck because it’s her last week. It’s her last week and she’s found Ben Solo. She’s not alone anymore and neither is he.

  
  


[X]

  
  


“What _was_ that?”  
  
It’s Hux, standing in his doorway smirking like the devil he is. Probably saw him with Rey and wants to be in on the office gossip. Like he gives a fuck about what this guy thinks.   
  
Ben’s just spent the weekend with the woman of his dreams. Doing all the things he’s thought about doing. Well, most of them. Some they’ll work up to in the future. Because there is one. Between them that is. A future.   
  
She feels the same way about him. It’s a miracle is what it is. _Him_. The guy who can’t say a thing without fucking things up. The guy who ruins everything by simply breathing. The guy who hadn’t been able to do anything right according to his mother. The guy whose best performance is in a screaming match. She’s in love with _him_. That guy. Fuck if that isn’t euphoric.  
  
“What was what?” he asks nonchalantly. It’s none of Hux’s business. Besides the contract is up at the end of the week. He’ll get her all to himself after that without any of these people’s curious eyeballs. Not that he minds. He quite enjoyed openly touching her. Enjoyed letting the world know she’s his and she _wants_ to be. The fact that it’s her last week is a bitter-sweet prospect - it’s exciting because it offers freedom from the office but also disheartening because he won’t see her every day. Won’t be able to walk the short walk to her office just to see her smile.  
  
“You and the shrink,” the ginger douche juts his chin, “you fuck her? She looks like the type that screams. Bet she’s loose ain’t she?”  
  
 _What the fuck_? His nostrils flare as his anger rises.  
  
 _No_ , what did she say? Think about it from their perspective. Why would Hux care to discuss this? Maybe because he’s jealous. She’s fucking beautiful, why wouldn’t he be jealous? The escorts he sneaks in don’t hold a candle to Rey. Maybe he wants first dibs on office gossip? Maybe he wants a leg up to get him canned?   
  
“That’s none of your concern.”  
  
“Oh come _on_ Solo,” Hux takes two stiff strides into his office then plops himself into one of the arm chairs across from him, “ **dish**!”  
  
“There’s nothing _to_ dish.”  
  
“Really?” Hux eyes him suspiciously, “because I saw you hold her hand out of the elevator and Ben Solo doesn’t _do_ physical contact. _Come on_ , what’s she like? Hot piece of ass like that doesn’t fall into your lap every day.”  
  
Ben sighs. If he wasn’t so blissed out from Rey, he might have let his anger get the best of him. He simply doesn’t have the reserves. Maybe that’s what he’d needed all along, the connection she offers. His mother didn’t give him the emotional support he craved, his job sucked the soul out of him, and not in that nice way that Rey does when her hot little mouth is wrapped around him. He’d had no one to let his guard down with.   
  
Then again, it’s not like she just happened to be in the right place at the right time. That wasn’t it at all. When he _did_ try to connect with people they usually just fucked off, probably incapable of taking the jabs he’d throw until he got around to lowering his defenses. But she did. She _did_. And for all the difficulty he’d put her through, she’d managed to even develop feelings as complex as _love_ for him. Who does he have to thank for this gift? Because he needs to send his angels or lucky stars or whatever brought her to him a big fucking bouquet of flowers.   
  
“Why do you care, Hux?” he asks, an idea springing to mind. He pulls open his browser, while ignoring the obnoxious gnat’s presence in the room.  
  
“Oh come _on_ Solo, you know men like us don’t get the hand holding. We’re good for one thing, and one thing only. How’d you do it, huh? How’d you rope her in?”  
  
“How’d I do _what_?”  
  
“You know ... get a woman to be interested for more than just sex.” Hux drawls a little sheepishly, the curiosity in his face betraying his uptight demeanor.  
  
Oh this is rich. Deeply, deliciously rich. Rey was right all those weeks ago, afterall. Just listening to Hux now he picks up on the wistfulness in his tone. How Hux must feel he doesn’t deserve an intimacy like hand holding. How he probably sees a bit of himself in Ben. Undeserving of love beyond what’s paid for. The question is, does he extend the olive branch to his nemesis? Or does he shut him down?  
  
He sighs, turning away from his monitor to look at Hux. If he’d had any doubts that his Rey-like analysis was a passing fancy, it's wholly crushed looking at the man. Hux looks like a kid in a candy store, begging his parents to let him pick something. He looks hopeful.  
  
“You just …” he leans back in his chair to really think about it, “listen. And talk. But really _listen_ . And really _talk_. Not about yourself. Not like in a meeting. You just … leave that hard shell behind and let her in.”

  
  


…

  
  


By 10:00 AM Mothma had come by his office to talk. And by talk it’s really to deliver a rehearsed speech. It went something like this:  
  
“Ben…” she’d walked in and sat herself across from him uninvited, much like Hux had earlier, “first of all, I want to say how proud I am of the progress you’re making.” That was accompanied by a smile he didn’t care to receive, but it was welcome. People didn’t smile at him usually. It’s becoming a welcome change, if he’s being honest with himself.   
  
“I also wanted to come by and let you know that we’re extending the JEDI contract indefinitely. Leia’s been here all morning talking to the therapists, Amilyn and I. The trial run turned out to be a hit so we’re going to try to hire them on full time.”  
  
Her lips quirked into a small smile again as she got up and Ben didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Rey would be here _every day_. They would also be under everyone’s scrutiny _every day_. They’d definitely need to talk about this over lunch.  
  
Mothma got up to leave the room, leaving a piece of paper face down on his desk.   
  
“Really, I’m proud of you Ben. You’ve grown exponentially these last few months.” She’d pointed at the sheet as she cleared his doorway, “you’ll probably need to fill that out, though.”

  
  


…

  
  


When he rounds the corner to her office holding a tray of sandwiches, salads, two bottles of soda water and packets of hot sauce, he didn’t expect to run into his mother. But here she is, in all her high-society glory, decked out in designer everything and dripping in pearls as usual.   
  
She must have startled him because they both stop dead in their tracks. He, looking every bit a fool holding a tray for two, she surprised to see him anywhere outside of his office.   
  
“Ben,” she smiles at him with a glint in her eye. Something he can’t quite place. It doesn’t escape him that she’s taken the briefest of almost imperceptible glances down at the tray.   
  
“Mother,” he swallows thickly. How is he going to explain this?   
  
“You look good, Ben,” she finally says, her smile growing ever so slightly, a little knowingly even. Then, miracle of miracles, she walks away towards the executive offices. Towards Amilyn most likely.  
  
“You look happy,” she pats his forearm in passing before disappearing around the elevator shaft.  
  
When he’s finally collected himself he walks around the waiting room sofa to tap her door lightly with the toe of his shoe. It’s a formality, really. Her door is wide open and she’s sitting prettily at her desk reading a file. When she glances up she smiles and fuck if that doesn’t make his heart flip and flop in his chest.  
  
“Is it time for lunch already?”  
  
“Mmhmm,” he walks in, kicking the door shut and placing the tray on the coffee table. In four of his large strides he’s at her side leaning down to kiss those lips he can’t seem to get enough of. And she ... well she meets him eagerly. Her deft arms wrap around his shoulders and he hoists her up in one fell swoop to sit her on the desk. His favourite mustard shift dress pooling between her legs where he’s made himself at home.  
  
“Ben,” she giggles against his lips, “I don’t think we have time…” the words die on her lips because he’s gripping her waist pulling her closer against him. Ready for her _again_. Like he hasn’t already had her _twice_ before noon.  
  
“I disagree. We have lunch,” he murmurs trailing kisses down her jaw to his very favourite spot on her neck, “and after that it’s my session time. If anything...” his hands trail up her thighs to circle her bare waist beneath the dress, “we have more time than usual.”  
  
“Yet less than the weekend,” she huffs into his hair laughing, gripping him tighter.  
  
The weekend. Last weekend. When he’d thought this was her last week. Before he’d found out this was going to be permanent. _Shit_. He pulls away from her, kissing away her frustrated mewl at the loss of contact.  
  
“Sweetheart, we need to talk,” he breathes against her lips.  
  
“We do,” she agrees.  
  
Pulling his hand away from her when he hasn’t left her in post-orgasmic bliss is hard. Damn hard. But he manages to persevere and fishes in his pant pocket for what he’s looking for. 

  
  


[X]

  
  


He pulls out a little origami fish. Similar to the one she’d made him months ago but significantly sloppier. The edges oddly crumpled and frayed. Like he’d struggled with the folds. Then again, she’s impressed he was able to eek out any form of origami, what with the paper he’d chosen being so small and the size of his fingers.  
  
“I…” he swallows thickly, “this is for you.”  
  
“Did you…”  
  
“A long time ago you told me they represented happiness, health and well-being. That they represented strength and freedom. I … you. _You_ ,” he places the fish in her open palm smiling softly, “ _are_ my happiness. My strength. My freedom...”  
  
And if that isn’t the sweetest fucking thing on earth, because she can’t help herself from bringing her hand up to trace his jaw. Can’t help how her palm envelopes the back of his head to pull him down for a long, lingering kiss. Can’t really stop the happiest of tears from pooling in the corners of her eyes.  
  
The gesture is so tender and open. It’s not what she’d expected from the man she’d met in the elevator. It’s not a gesture she’d have expected from Broody McGrump (a sticky note she needs to scrap). It’s thoughtful. He’d listened, taken everything she’d said to heart, even when she thought he wasn’t listening.   
  
“That was extremely difficult to do by the way,” he laughs against her lips, “the instructions online are fucking awful.”  
  
She laughs right back, “sounds to me like you need a teacher.”  
  
“I can think of better things to do with my fingers.”  
  
“Hmmm,” she hums happily, “so can I.”

  
  


…

  
  


They didn’t eat lunch. They didn’t even have their session really. I mean, sure it was a session if you consider them finally christening that chaise properly. They’d held each other until their heart rates slowed and their breathing returned to normal. That’s when he’d been reminded of the piece of paper folded on the lunch tray.  
  
They’d both signed it in record time, straightening themselves out to a semblance of presentable and walked out of her office holding hands. They’d held hands around the corner, down the hallways, straight to the corner HR was nestled in, coming to a halt in front of Mothma’s office. Ben clutched the signed paper in his free hand, turning to face her.  
  
A gentle kiss falls on her forehead and she leans into it, closing her eyes.  
  
“Are you willing to _try_ with me?”  
  
“Mmhmm…” she hums back, “I won’t be easy.”  
  
He only laughed, kissed the corner of her mouth and whispered, “I don’t expect you to be.”  
  
Then, he knocked on the door, hope blooming in her chest, their fingers clasped.

  
  


[X]

  
  


Amilyn has served her a lukewarm, weak, mediocre cup of earl grey tea in a standard fare office mug. It still has a ring around the lip from previous use which makes her scowl just a fraction before schooling her features again.  
  
“The name change went through. We’re officially Finder now, Leia. The domain’s been re-routed, the new logo implemented across documents, apps, software… you did it,” Amilyn beams at her. Like she wasn’t certain it could be pulled off. Like she isn’t a Skywalker - determination, grit, relentlessness steeped in her blood for generations.   
  
“I’m glad to see you’ve managed to fit all the pieces together nicely,” she compliments Amilyn. Which is true. Leia may have orchestrated the changes but Amilyn was the true conductor. She’d taken the changes and applied them with an easy pressure. A pressure that turned the piece of coal she’d fought for and turned it into a diamond. Amilyn had acted as her pressure cooker.  
  
“And the therapists?” she asks, wafting the scent of the cheap earl grey but not sipping it.   
  
“Your brother is drafting up their release. Mothma is drafting up their papers here. If they accept, which I’m almost certain they will, we’ll have on site therapists for staff from henceforth,” Amilyn beams at her again.  
  
It was wholly gratifying to hear Amilyn tell her about her son’s improvements. How he’d had claims against him redacted. How he’d stopped storming into meetings and screaming at employees. How his behaviour had significantly improved. She’d even gone to speak with the therapist to thank her. The woman truly had a gift. The CV Luke had given her couldn’t even come close to describing her skillset. It had been a rough brushstroke to the genius housed behind her pretty hazel eyes.   
  
Thanking her alone would have been enough for Leia. What she hadn’t expected was to see her son round the corner to the therapist’s office holding a tray. Leia wasn’t stupid. She didn’t live under a rock nor was she born yesterday. People in her circles kept their cards close to their chests and she’d become expert at reading what they were hiding. Someone as emotional as her son was practically an open book. The tray with _two_ meals? The fact that his appointment wasn’t for another half hour? The way he’d looked all but caught red handed?  
  
No. They had something. Leia wasn’t stupid. And judging by his sheepish cowering it was something quite deep. Something he didn’t want to let her in on just yet. He’d always donned that expression when she was close to discovering something he wasn’t ready to share. This woman meant something to him and that … _that_ … gave her hope of a different kind. A _new_ hope.  
  
Her fingers loop through her pearls to rub them idly between her fingers, listening to Amilyn list off the company’s steady gains on the NASDAQ, the increase in profitability and their improved client retention rates. Leia didn’t really hear much of it. No, she was wondering if her jeweler would rush an adjustment on her mother’s engagement ring, if their summer home on the coast would have enough space to host a reception, if there was anyone in town who could build a gazebo on the beach. If Rey liked roses, hydrangeas or peonies, if one of the local event venues would rent her out chiavari chairs or if she’d need to buy them outright and ship them over.   
  
Of course, these are the musings of a woman who’s getting ahead of herself, but she doesn’t need to share these fantasies with anyone. What harm could they possibly do? She’s just happy her son found someone who makes him as happy as he clearly is. She’d wait till the end of her days for him to come around. Meticulously planning and hoarding bits and pieces for the inevitable wedding.  
  
There’s a soft knock on the door. She and Amilyn turn around to see Mrs. Mothma smiling holding up a piece of paper happily.  
  
“They signed it,” she chuckles, waving the sheet before laying it down on the table.  
  
It’s an employee relationship disclosure document. Signed by Rey Niima & Benjamin Solo.  
  
Leia can’t contain the smile that escapes her, nor does she care to. This is a good first step. The _perfect_ first step.   
  
Maybe, just maybe, she _did_ manage to turn it around and help her son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this was fun to write. It originally started as a challenge to myself to write some smut but found plot along the way. It's surprisingly hard to get just right and I tip my hat to all authors that write it so beautifully. You're forever toeing the line between being _too_ descriptive and _not_ descriptive enough. You don't know how many times I read through sections and thought WTF or 'but how is he _feeling_ '. 
> 
> Thanks for following along and allowing me to bastardize therapy. I've quite enjoyed taking the psych route and might dabble in it some more in the future. 
> 
> <3


End file.
